


Hermione Granger and the Marriage Law Revolution

by Starfox5



Series: Hermione Granger and the Marriage Law Revolution [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Harry Potter, BAMF Hermione Granger, BAMF Ron Weasley, F/M, Muggle Technology, Post-Hogwarts, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-27 06:41:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 125,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6273811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starfox5/pseuds/Starfox5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione Granger deals with the marriage law the Wizengamot passed after Voldemort's defeat - in the style of the French Revolution. Old scores are settled but new enemies gather their forces, determined to crush the new British Ministry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The law that broke the purebloods

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters in the Harry Potter books or movies.
> 
> This is a revised version of the story posted on FFNet. 
> 
> I would like to thank GJMEGA for proofreding several chapters.

**Chapter 1: The law that broke the purebloods**

"They legalized rape!" The Daily Prophet from two days ago was slapped on the table in the private room at the Three Broomsticks with enough force to scare most of the wizarding pictures out of their frames. Compared to the volume of the comment that opened the meeting of the survivors of the Defense Association it was nothing though - Hermione Granger was riled up to a point not many had ever seen her at.

"The Wizengamot just made rape not only legal, but enforced by Aurors!" she continued, before pausing, to control herself. At her side Harry Potter, hero of the second Blood War and Vanquisher of Voldemort, put a hand on her shoulder in support.

Neville Longbottom, hero of Hogwarts, spoke up, though with more caution in his voice than one would expect from the man who had stood up to Voldemort and beheaded Nagini with the Sword of Gryffindor: "Do you mean the Marriage Law the Wizengamot passed?"

"What else would I mean?" Hermione snarled. When Neville opened his mouth she cut him off. "Don't you dare to repeat their lies here! This law is not about saving the Wizarding World, it is about raping women!" She glared at everyone in the room. "They will force every girl here to have sex no matter her own wishes! That is rape no matter how you twist the words!"

Again Neville was about to open his mouth, and again she cut him off. "A marriage will not be accepted as legal and valid until and unless the bride and groom have had sex." She waved a piece of parchment around. "If someone's not married before their 19th birthday, the Wizengamot will pick a partner for them. And Aurors will enforce the marriage if needed."

Hermione took a deep breath, and then continued at a lower volume, but with an even stronger passion: "And we all know how the Wizengamot works. How much do you think will it cost to get a girl? A few galleons for a muggleborn without friends in high places? How much to force the child of a rival into a marriage with an enemy? How much to force a muggleborn witch to become a broodmare in some pureblood household?" She looked at Ron Weasley. "How much do you think Millicent Bulstrode will have to pay to rape a pureblood from a family with proven fertility like you?" Ron and a lot of the men present turned green at that.

She looked at Neville, who had his arms around Hannah Abbot. "And do you think being engaged will keep you safe? How much do you think will Malfoy pay to get you or Hannah arrested to prevent a wedding, until either of you is 19 and can be married off? The law states that you can't marry someone who's in jail - no matter if convicted or not."

Hermione raised her voice again. "And how long until not even marriage will keep you safe? How long until Nott decides he wants children from a pureblood woman who has proven to be fertile? If he can't murder her husband, why not simply change the law, and dissolve the marriage?"

Hermione started to pace. "Not even a year ago the Ministry was happily murdering muggleborns and half-bloods - all in the name of the law! And now they have legalized rape! They will not stop with their crimes against us unless we stop them! Now.” She took a deep breath.

"17 years ago Harry defeated Voldemort for the first time, ending the first war. And yet as we all know, most of Voldemort's Death Eaters were not punished, they were left alone by a corrupt Ministry and Wizengamot, growing in power until they started the next war and almost murdered every one of us until Harry defeated him again. And again, most of those who helped Voldemort murder muggles and muggleborns are not being punished, and are already trying to run the country again!"

She faced the room. "Do you want to be raped? Do you want to see Aurors drag your children off to be raped by some old Death Eater? Do you want to live under the power of such monsters as those who would pass such a law?"

A loud "No!" from everyone present answered her.

"Will you let them drag us away to be raped? Will you let them rape our children?"

"NO!"

*****

Hermione Granger was in her flat, checking the latest flyer she and Harry had come up with before duplicating it. She'd send the copies - through a courier, not with owls - to the members of the DA who would distribute them further. Each flyer was another small blow aimed at the government - a blow the Ministry might not even notice.

She scoffed. For all their cunning and experience, the purebloods in the Wizengamot were just that - purebloods. Even their radicals were hidebound conservatives by the standards of the real world, far too set in their ways to be able to understand, much less adapt to, the advancements the 20th century had brought. Sure, they controlled the Daily Prophet, but they had no idea what real propaganda was. Not even Shacklebolt had a clue, despite his work with Potterwatch during the Second Blood War.

And that was a good thing, with most of the pureblood leaders of the ‘light side’, as some called those who had opposed the Death Eaters, either dead in the last war or working for the same Ministry and Wizengamot that had passed the Marriage Law. It also meant that the muggleborns and their remaining allies were, for the first time in history, able to use their knowledge to its full effect, and plan without being hindered by pureblood ideologies and traditions. Or scruples.

She knew the earlier ‘Resist Rape!’ flyers and posters had been distributed, anonymously at first, in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, denouncing the Wizengamot members and anyone willing to follow their orders as rapists. They had also spread the word among the muggleborn and half-blood survivors of the war, informing them - and inciting them. Not that it took much, Hermione knew. Their family and friends had been exterminated as if they were the vermin Voldemort's purebloods saw them as, and they were already fed up and angry with the half-hearted attempts at justice other purebloods had granted them. Supposedly Dumbledore’s last wish had been to see his enemies redeemed and Britain’s factions reconciled. She scoffed at that presumption - as if the old wizard, sacrificing himself, could have spoken for all those killed in the war, for their families demanding justice!

Deep wounds, barely healed, were ripped open by the actions of a Wizengamot that seemed set on repeating the mistakes made after the First Blood War. But this time the muggleborn and half-bloods realized what was happening. "Not again! Never again!" she whispered, clenching her fists at the thought of a Third Blood War starting in a decade or two. She’d do anything to prevent that.

She heard the door opening and turned around, wand in hand. Her wards should have alerted her if someone with hostile intentions had tried to enter, but old habits died hard. When she saw it was Harry she relaxed and smiled.

*****

Harry Potter hung up his jacket and walked over to Hermione, hugging her before checking the completed flyers. Many of his friends and acquaintances had expected him to publish an interview in the Quibbler, to stop this law. And as the ‘Saviour of Wizarding Britain’, he could have done so, so great was his fame and influence. But as Hermione had explained to him, in her usual logical and pedantic way, which had grown on him over the years of their friendship, it would not have solved anything in the long run. The Wizengamot would simply try again, and again, until gold and bigotry had won over his fame. It had happened to Dumbledore before.

He knew that Hermione, brilliant, but utterly ruthless if she deemed it necessary, didn't want to just stop the law, but eradicate the whole ideology behind the law. She wanted to crush and destroy Wizarding Britain's bigotry - even if she had to wipe out the purebloods to accomplish that. Harry had been appalled at first, but after hours of passionate discussions, he had seen that it was the only way. It was obvious that the blood purists had not learned their lessons even after after two bloody civil wars. They had denied the victims justice, had saved the murderers and rapists, sowing the seeds already for the next conflict. If he wanted his friends, and his family - present and future - to live without fear of another Blood War then he couldn’t let them get away with this.

And so there had been no interview by the Boy-Who-Lived, no political pressure from the heroes of the war. Instead there had been preparations in secret. Words were exchanged, spells taught, lessons learned. Flyers posted that called upon any Ministry employee, any Auror to abandon their posts, to refuse serving rapists and murderers.

Now all that was left was to wait for the right moment.

*****

Melvin Thicket reeled a bit, after he had apparated from the Ministry with his partner Darren Cornwald. He hadn’t been an Auror for that long, he had been hired right after the Battle of Hogwarts. Melvin hadn’t fought in that battle, having preferred to not get involved in the war, and if he was honest with himself, neither he nor his partner had otherwise distinguished themselves, but with the war over, and the Ministry hiring, the two of them had applied, mostly to get their families off their backs. They had been hired, of course - both of them were purebloods, and while their grades had not been stellar, they were not as inept as others, and they hadn’t been too closely associated with the Death Eaters. Just the usual casual contact. They had picked the Auror Corps for the higher pay, and the nice figure they cut in their red robes, tailor made and privately purchased.

The two Aurors had apparated to a small, cozy house in the English countryside, where Mandy Smith had ignored a summons by the Wizengamot. Mandy Smith was not famous, had not taken part in the war, and had no powerful family to protect her. Melvin didn't expect any trouble - Mandy Smith's file stated she was shy, obedient, and likely would have been married already to a man of her parents’ choice if not for those parents dying in the war. He had briefly wondered why a pureblood orphan hadn't already been taken care of by her extended family, but ultimately, it didn’t matter. Melvin wasn’t about to question his orders. Especially orders that gave them a nice, easy task - after two days of patrolling Diagon Alley, keeping the increasingly unruly mudbloods from disturbing the peace, they could use some light duty.

Melvin checked the name on the door with the name in their warrant, and nodded to Darren. It wouldn't do to arrest the wrong person, like when they had a bungled the arrest of a suspected trafficker in muggle goods during their first week. If not for the lack of trusted, read: pureblood Aurors, and their family connections, they might even had been fired!

But they had learned their lesson well. So Melvin was quite surprised when the door was opened by a witch everyone in Britain recognized at once: Hermione Granger. Why was the hero of the Second Blood War visiting Mandy Smith? he wondered, missing how the name on the doorbell changed to ‘Hermione Granger’.

"Can I help you?" Hermione asked, smiling politely.

Melvin blinked, and opened his mouth to ask if Mandy Smith was at home, but hesitated - everyone knew Granger was quite powerful, and while he had been a few years ahead of her at Hogwarts, he knew she was not happy with the Marriage Law. He didn't want to provoke her, not without a team of Aurors at his back. There were some scary stories the older Aurors told of Granger's actions in the war. Before he could decide on what to say though he was surprised again.

"Stupefy. Incarcerous."

In front of Melvin, Granger was hit by a whispered stunner chained into a Body-Binding Curse - cast from behind the two Aurors. Melvin whirled around but he didn’t see anyone, not even the telltales of a disillusionment charm or a cloak of invisibility. He saw that Darren was casting a Shield Charm and told him to keep an eye out for the mysterious attacker while he bent down to check on Granger.

She was but a mudblood, but if an official hero of the Second Blood War was hurt under his watch, so to speak, there would be hell to pay. She didn't seem hurt, just stunned, but he still had to cast a diagnosis charm.

"Hermione! NO!"

Melvin looked up, and gaped. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived stood there, in the house, with his wand aimed at him! The cold expression on the wizard’s face was a marked and strange contrast with the anguished cry he had just uttered. Not that Melvin really noticed. His attention was caught by the glowing tip of the wand aimed at him.

"Diffindo!"

The last thing he saw, still kneeling at Hermione's side, was an overpowered cutting curse that sliced straight through him and his partner.

*****

Phineas Pearson was tenser and more afraid than he had ever been since the Second Blood War had ended. Walking through Diagon Alley felt like when he had been avoiding Snatchers on the rare trips to get food for his family. No, it felt worse. Back then, Diagon Alley had looked deserted, but today, the alley was packed with people - and most of them were staring at him with blatant hatred. If Thicket and Cornwald had not been dead already, Phineas would have liked to kill them himself for making an already bad situation much, much worse. No one would judge him for it, he was sure - the Ministry was scrambling to keep order as it was, and it was all the fault of those two twits.

The news that two Aurors had attacked Hermione Granger to drag her off to be married - raped as the muggleborns claimed - had spread like wildfire through Britain. Phineas had seen flyers with wizarding pictures showing how the girl opened the door and was stunned and captured right away without any warning, and had read the statement by Harry Potter, who had arrived just in time to save her. The flyer had a clear message: If the Ministry and Wizengamot were willing to go after Hermione Granger, one of the heroes of the last war, best friend of Harry Potter and Ron Weasley (and possibly the fiancée of one of them), then no one was safe.

"Rapist!"

Phineas whirled around, wand hand raising, but he couldn't make out who had said that. All he saw was a crowd of people staring at him, full of anger and hatred. He thought he recognized one of the faces, a muggleborn wizard who had been with him in Hufflepuff but had not been accepted as an Auror back when Phineas himself had gotten in. He didn't remember his name though - he hadn't really kept in touch with the muggleborns after Hogwarts. They just didn't fit into his circle of friends. Now he wished he had at least one muggleborn friend - maybe he would know why they seemed to hate him so much, even though he had fought against Voldemort!

He turned around, and walked away, but kept his wand ready. These days he felt more on edge in Diagon Alley than in Knockturn Alley. He knew that the attempt to arrest Granger had been a mistake, like the Ministry claimed. The DMLE would never have sent the likes of Thicket and Cornwald after her, but the best Aurors they had, and a team of four or more at least.

Speaking of a team… Phineas really wished his regular partner was with him. Mark Dannings was a half-blood, but he was skilled with his wand, and Phineas knew he'd have his back. But Mark was sick, hadn't come to work for days. Usually the DMLE didn't send Aurors out alone, but with the current situation, they needed every wand on the street to keep the peace. And Phineas was no coward, he knew his duty. He had fought against You-know-who, after all.

"Death to the rapists!"

Phineas felt as if someone had cast an icy Aguamenti on him. Merlin! He needed to stop whoever had shouted that, before things went further. He pushed past a muggleborn - the man wasn't wearing decent robes, but muggle clothes - and was pushed to the side in response, making him stumble.

Phineas was about to tell the rude man off - one did not treat Aurors like that! - when more cries of "Death to the rapists!" were shouted. Many more. He was no coward, but… he was surrounded by a dozen wizards and witches. They had not quite yet all drawn out their wands, but…

A flash of red caught his attention, and he spotted a red Auror robe being set afire. Did they…

"I will no longer support a corrupt Ministry willing to rape us!"

Phineas gaped - that was no muggleborn, that was his fellow auror William Spencer! A half-blood, but a decent Auror! What was he doing there, standing in his underwear and decrying the Ministry? He had to stop this!

"Spencer! What are you doing?" he shouted, wand raised, and started towards the other Auror.

The crowd cheered at the sight of the burning robe, and started to chant: "Death to the rapists! Death to the rapists!"

"Stop this! At once!"

Phineas was no coward, but when the mob turned on him, when the curses started flying towards him, when he realized he was going to die, he wished he was one. The last thing he saw was the sad expression on Spencer's face, looking at him.

*****

“Death to the rapists!”

Dean Thomas wished he had used ear plugs when over a hundred wizards and witches who had gathered in Diagon Alley shouted their rallying cry. He had forgotten how loud a crowd could be. And how volatile. The way they had torn that Auror to shreds a few minutes ago… well, the man had had it coming, for supporting the Ministry.

“Death to the Rapists!”

The crowd was getting even angrier. If left to their own devices, they’d riot and plunder the pureblood shops. He checked the enchanted galleon in his pocket. All clear. It was time to take the reins. Casting an Amplifying Charm, he shouted “To the Ministry! To the Ministry!”

The crowd, aided along by a few of Dean’s friends, took up the cry. Someone shouted “Apparate now!”, and Dean cursed when the sound of dozens apparating at the same time filled the air. After casting a Shield Charm, he apparated to the Ministry himself.

He arrived in a chaotic battle. One Auror was lying on the floor near the Apparition Spot, his head crushed. Another was crumpled at the foot of the statue in the atrium, bleeding from several gashes. All around him, people were casting and shouting and running. He took a step to the side, placing his back to a wall, and glanced around. The floor was in the hands of the mob. But above them… he spotted a red blur, and sent a Blasting Curse up, reducing part of the upper floor to rubble and causing a red-robed Auror to fall down.

Seamus was rushing towards the lifts, followed by Sally-Anne and a dozen wizards Dean didn’t know. Another group was dragging a fat old wizard to the atrium, jeering and beating him. Dean was about to intervene when someone blew up the statue in the middle of the atrium, showering the entire area with rock fragments.

He took out his galleon again, and scratched it three times. Things were getting out of hand.

*****

Hermione Granger didn't wince or show much emotion when she stepped into the Ministry of Magic past the barely-recognizable corpse of the guard at the entrance. More corpses were strewn around the lobby, most in red robes, but others in normal clothes too - casualties among the mob who had stormed the Ministry, or Ministry employees. ‘Mob’ was not correct of course, even though it would have looked like one to observers - the wizards and witches attacking the Ministry had been led by select members of the DA, all experienced veterans from the war, while other members had made sure that the Floo connections would be blocked, Anti-Apparition Jinxes cast, and the entrances unsealed while the Aurors were distracted. The DA could have taken the Ministry by themselves, Hermione thought, especially with Harry leading them, but it would have cost them, and Harry would have been seen as leading a coup.

She nodded at Dean Thomas, standing guard at the Apparition point. He had called them in faster than expected - apparently what resistance there was, mostly by confused and isolated Aurors and the odd Ministry employee that wasn't an inept coward, had been broken in a few minutes. Harry had had to rush to stop the mob from lynching the everyone inside. Fortunately, the Boy-Who-Lived, helped by an overpowered Amplifying Charm, had managed to prevent a bloodbath.

All around them, people were cheering her and Harry while the two walked towards the now destroyed statue in the middle of the entrance hall. She was sure there had been lynchings already, but judging by the crowd of disarmed prisoners held in the atrium, it seemed that most of the members of the Wizengamot and the Ministry employees had survived.

For now, Hermione thought to herself while Harry climbed up on the still standing base of the statue and raised his hands to calm the mass of wizards and witches down so he could speak. Everyone who had supported Voldemort or the Marriage Law would pay. She spotted Shacklebolt, looking dazed, being brought into the hall, and smiled coldly. There was one of the biggest traitors, willing to sacrifice the muggleborns, willing to have his Aurors drag them to their rapists, all so he could keep his power as Minister for Magic. He'd be the first to be judged by the Tribunals. She couldn't spot Arthur Weasley, and hoped he had been sensible enough to leave the Ministry before this day. Things with the Weasleys were strained enough as it was.

She joined Harry on the improvised platform and smiled while he gave the speech that would launch the Reformation of Wizarding Britain. It was brief but very emotional and inspiring, and appeared to be improvised despite and because the care both of them had taken in preparing it.

*****

Hermione Granger, latest and youngest Minister for Magic, surveyed her office. The last traces of her predecessors ideas of interior design had finally been removed, and it looked just like she wanted it - functional, austere, with understated elegance, and above all, modern. She liked it very much.

The last few weeks had been a stressful time. The Wizengamot members who had voted for the Marriage Law had all been interrogated with Veritaserum to ferret out further crimes, tried, and pushed through the Veil of Death. Then the Tribunals had started. Any employee in the Ministry they had captured was dosed with Veritaserum, and interrogated about their role in the war. Everyone among them who had willingly supported Voldemort or his extermination of muggleborns had been sent through the Veil. Hermione had prepared the questions herself, to ensure that ‘support’ was not too strictly defined. No one who had chosen to help murder muggleborns, no matter if they had hunted and killed them personally, or had provided the actual killers with addresses and logistical support, had escaped. No one who had chosen to help drag witches off to be raped had been spared.

Those not implicated, those who had felt they had no other choice than to help, those who had tried to avoid helping Voldemort, were forced to swear a magical oath that prevented them from supporting any pureblood supremacy or hurting muggles or muggleborns except in self-defense. Hermione had made sure there were no loopholes in the oath that would allow anyone to ‘defend traditional lives’ or such. It was a sad testimony to the true beliefs of the pureblood aristocracy that at the end of the Tribunals, the majority of the upper class of Wizarding Britain had been wiped out and many of the survivors were hunted or under oath.

Hermione and the new Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Harry Potter, had been kept busy during the Tribunals reorganizing the Ministry and keeping the basic functions of a government running - or, most often, getting them started since the pureblood regime hadn't really been concerned with much beyond making sure the purebloods in power stayed in power and got rich.

For all their success though they had alienated many of their pureblood friends with their actions during the Marriage Law Revolution, as it was now called. The Weasleys were the most prominent of those who had avoided Hermione and Harry since the Revolution. While they had not directly asked if the pair would have executed Arthur Weasley, had he still been working for the Ministry by the time of the Revolution, they could not have missed that Kingsley Shacklebolt, the former Minister for Magic and member of the Order of the Phoenix, had been executed for supporting rape.

Hermione was glad that Percy Weasley had realized what was to come, and had all but forced Arthur to resign with him, in vocal protest of the Marriage Law, some time before that day - an act that made him popular with both his family and Harry and Hermione. Percy was already a Department Head in the New Ministry, and one of their biggest supporters.

Hermione found it quite surprising that Percy was now the Weasley closest to her and Harry, but it did make sense. Even without that uncertainty, that nagging question about what would have happened to Arthur, hanging over them, the ruthless side both Hermione and Harry had revealed, the way they executed dozens of coworkers of Arthur ‘who had just done their job’ as a few still claimed, and the way they not only ignored, but actively erased traditions and customs that had been around for hundreds of years had driven the poor but proud pureblood family away. A family that shunned a relative for being a squib and an accountant could not cope easily with such changes. That the two in private also openly decried Dumbledore's ideology of forgiveness and redemption as useless and contributing to the mass-murder of muggleborns was the icing on the cake.

Hermione Granger glanced at the most recent reports concerning her plans for the Reformation of Wizarding Britain as Minister for Magic, and frowned. She had picked a quite different name and acronym for her project, but Harry had not wanted a repetition of the S.P.E.W. disaster and had intervened. It hadn't remained the only ‘name intervention’, to the amusement of their friends. Hermione was quite annoyed that she couldn't point to ‘Mandy Smith’ as an example - the only one, sadly - of a perfectly normal name she had picked without Harry's help since any parchment that had mentioned that name had been destroyed - by her own spells, no less - during the incident that sparked the Marriage Law Revolution.

*********


	2. Meeting McGonagall

**Chapter 2: Meeting McGonagall**

Minerva McGonagall was walking towards the gates of Hogwarts with her usual stern expression on her face. Only the way she clenched her teeth repeatedly gave a hint to her emotions. Minutes before a patronus had arrived in her office and informed her that the new Minister for Magic and the new Chief Warlock would be arriving at Hogwarts any moment now. Even passed through an animal like the usually playful otter the message had sounded ominous - or that could just be her take on it given recent events. To think that Minister Shacklebolt - Kingsley, a good friend, a comrade in the fight against Voldemort - had been killed on the orders of those two… she grew even more tense, and straightened her back. Even if they came to kill her too, she'd face them without showing fear.

The two former students of hers - both had not returned for their 7th year, with only vague explanations of needing some time off as an excuse - were standing at the gate with two others - Dean Thomas and a man she didn’t recognize. All were dressed in muggle fashion, suits she thought they were called, no one wore robes, and Miss Granger’s skirt barely reached her knees! Scandalous! Minerva couldn’t help but frown a bit at the sight, and even more at the cold smirk she received in return. What had happened to the studious, obedient girl she thought she knew? She pushed the thoughts back and rallied with the help of ingrained politeness.

“Welcome to Hogwarts, Minister, Chief Warlock.”

Both nodded politely in return, smiling slightly. Miss Granger spoke: “Good Morning, Headmistress. You know Dean Thomas, and this is Robert Smith.” No explanation as to who he was. “I am glad you got our message. We have a lot to talk about.” An understatement, if any.

Minerva stiffly nodded in return. “If you’d follow me to my office…” she was about to turn when she was stopped.

“No,” Miss Granger interrupted her. “Unless your office has had all the portraits removed we will not talk there.” She smiled, though it looked like she was baring her teeth. “I dislike spies. An empty classroom will do.”

*****

Hermione Granger kept a polite smile on her face while McGonagall led them through her old school. On the way they were spotted by a few students. Some of them ran away, screaming even, others gaped, stared, but did not dare to approach - the stern Headmistress glared at a muggleborn fourth year who looked like she wanted to talk to them, and sent the girl running away. The whole school would know of the visit in no time, of course, Hermione was well aware of how fast the rumor mill of Hogwarts worked. Using an empty classroom might throw them off though - most students would assume they’d be going to the office of the Headmistress. Avoiding the portraits was only one reason for choosing this location though. More importantly was that it would deprive McGonagall of the psychological advantage the office provided when meeting former students. Even though in Hermione’s and Harry’s case it would only fill them with rage and anger, it would distract them from the point of the visit - the first point, that is. The second would see them in the Headmistress’ office.

They reached an empty classroom, one of those not used anymore. There were lots of those in Hogwarts, even those damaged or destroyed in the battle had been repaired and restored just like before. No wizard had even thought to remove them, or to replace them with something more useful. All they had thought of was to restore Hogwarts as it had been. Hermione shook her head slightly - such mindless conservatism was one of the reasons for the problems Wizarding Britain had.

*****

A few - a lot - of privacy and detection spells and three conjured seats later Minerva found herself alone with Miss Granger and Mister Potter. The polite smile had been replaced by a cold expression on his face. Miss Granger’s smile had stayed, but her eyes had grown cold. “I assume you are wondering about the reason for our sudden visit.”

Minerva kept her stern face on. “I assume it’s not to arrest me, or you’d not have come personally.” At least she hoped so.

Miss Granger raised an eyebrow. “Why would we arrest you? You haven’t been helping rapists, have you?” Minerva was outraged at the accusation, but the woman - girl - simply continued while she sputtered an outraged denial. “Though that’s a topic for later. We’re here to inform you about the changes Hogwarts will be undergoing.”

“Changes? Hogwarts is independent, the Ministry has no say here!” Minerva stood up and had some trouble getting a hold on her anger. She would defend her school, consequences be damned!

Before she could get going though, Mister Potter raised his hand - the one with the scars left by Umbridge’s blood quill - and showed it to her. “Remember this? Remember telling me to keep my head down? And now you claim the Ministry has no say here?”

Minerva paled, ashamed as she remembered that moment. In hindsight she couldn’t understand why she had acted that way, it had run counter to all Gryffindor stood for. He simply scoffed at her while she sat back down again.

The girl - the Minister for Magic! Minerva reminded herself - continued: “Even if you had not submitted to the authority of the Ministry back then, the history of Hogwarts in the last few years clearly shows that the school cannot be left to govern itself. Laws to that effect will be passed soon enough.”

Minerva gaped. What was Miss Granger saying? “Hogwarts is the finest Magical School…” she started to say, but once again she was interrupted.

“That may be the case - I hope not, since it would mean the magical world is even more stupid than I thought - but it certainly is not a fine school by any objective standard.” The girl glared at McGonagall, passion anyone who had seen her rant about studying or injustice when she was younger would recognize at once seeping into her voice. “Hogwarts is an embarrassment. With a few exceptions the teachers are inept, the courses offered are far too limited, and the material often outdated or plain wrong. The infrastructure is primitive, and the school grounds are not safe. If this was a normal school, it would have been closed long ago, half the staff would have been fired and the rest would have been arrested.”

Minerva was left gaping - she hadn’t expected this. Where was this coming from? Miss Granger had been so happy during her time at Hogwarts! For a moment she had even forgotten the Tribunals, only the last sentence, when the Minister mentioned staff being arrested, brought that threat back.

And Minister Granger was just picking up steam. “Hogwarts will be brought up to the standards of the 20th century. No longer shall normal children feel like they are thrown back into the Dark Ages when entering the school! Quills and parchment? I guess we should be glad you don’t carve up stone plates still! In the future, students will be allowed to use pens and paper and even typewriters to write their assignments. We’ll also update the school uniforms.”

“But tradition…” Minerva tried to interrupt, desperate to stop this torrent of unimaginable changes - new school uniforms, not robes? No more parchment? - but her attempt only triggered another scathing remark.

“Tradition is no reason to keep something outdated if better alternatives are around. Pens are better than quills, period. There is no reason at all to use quills, magic doesn’t care how ink is used. Making students use quills means wasting time and effort during their education. That will no longer be tolerated.” Her eyes were blazing, and Minerva felt afraid for just a second. “If any purebloods want to keep using inferior tools, they can do so. It’s their loss. But the uniform will change.”

The witch narrowed her eyes at Minerva. “And you will install a public announcement system. Wizarding Wireless works at Hogwarts, so you cannot claim it’s impossible. The next time a troll is roaming the school all inside will be warned at once! Especially the house-elves, who can then locate any missing students!”

Apparently Miss Granger hadn’t forgotten her near-death experience during the Halloween feast in 1991. Not one of Minerva’s finer moments, truth be told, but it had seen the formation of the ‘Golden Trio’ responsible for Voldemort’s downfall, so she used to think of the event rather fondly. Apparently, Miss Granger didn’t share that view.

Her voice cut off Minerva’s thoughts. “Speaking of security, the Forbidden Forest will be made safe. I am sure both the centaurs and the unicorns would like to be safe from acromantulas and other threats too. You will update the castle’s infrastructure. The times of prefects having a luxury bath and the rest having to make do with old, dingy showers are over. Furthermore, the moving stairs will be controlled. How anyone could think randomly moving stairs are acceptable is beyond me!”

“But they are controlled by Hogwarts itself! You cannot change the school like this!” Minerva exclaimed. It had been tried before, by other Headmasters, and it had not worked! The founders had created the castle, and installed all the marvels of magic students and staff still enjoyed to this day, but those as well as their less than inspired legacies were both protected by the enchantments of the castle!

The Minister scoffed. “Rubbish! Hogwarts is a castle and a school, not some god whose whims we have to follow. If we really cannot control it then we’ll replace it.”

That left Minerva shocked into silence. To replace Hogwarts was… unthinkable!

*****

Hermione Granger smirked at the sight of her old transfiguration teacher clutching her chest. “That’s the gist about the infrastructure. More important though is the curriculum and the staff. As it is Hogwarts offers far too few subjects, and produces students that are ignorant and arrogant at the same time, unable to live in the real world, and only able to live in the magical world due to corruption and nepotism. It’s pathetic that grown men and women have no idea how normal people dress, and still expect to be able to maintain the Statute of Secrecy. Their ignorance threatens the entire magical world!” Not that she gave a damn about the magical world anymore, but it felt good to point it out to the bigot in front of her.

McGonagall was gaping, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“Muggle studies will be reduced to a mandatory course for all first years. And renamed of course - we’ll not be using such derogatory names anymore. History will replace History of Magic, and cover both magical and mundane history.”

“But Binns…”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Binns will be fired of course. As will a number of teachers that do not measure up. The usual basic subjects like the sciences will be added, as well as some electives. Generally, the school will assure that any student will have their GCSE by the time they graduate, with A-Levels for those who choose so and can handle it in addition to their magic studies.” Hermione rolled her eyes at the look of incomprehension on McGonagall’s face. “Consider them Muggle O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s.”

“But who will teach them? I do not know any wizard with a mastery in Muggle Studies,” Minerva stated. “I am not even sure there even is a mastery available in that subject.”

Hermione sighed. The old woman was even more stupid than she thought. Even if Muggle Studies was not a sick joke to start with, one needed much more than such a course to actually teach the sciences. “You’ll hire normal teachers of course, if there are not enough muggleborn wizards and witches with the needed qualifications.” Which would include the ability to teach, not just a mastery of the subject to be taught.

“But the wards…”

“If the wards do not allow individual non-magical teachers to pass through, then you’ll open classrooms outside the wards, and the students will travel through the Floo Network there and back. You’ll have to open an office in London anyway, where normal parents can visit the teachers of their children. And where you can be reached by phone and fax and e-mail.” Hermione had to suppress a smirk. And it would make the staff get used to electronics and their convenience, further eroding any lingering feeling of superiority. No longer could they lock out normal parents!

“Do you remember what my favorite book was as a student? Or was a mudblood so beneath your notice that you didn’t care at all?” Again she cut off McGonagall’s sputtering denials. “No matter, it was ‘Hogwarts: A History’. I know how many magical courses were dropped over time, how the curriculum was dumbed down. That stops now. Dumbledore’s policy of restricting knowledge to a select few and dropping any subject that he disapproved of will not be followed any longer. The details are in my reform plan.”

Hermione pulled a thick folder out of her briefcase. She had started writing it in her first year, in fact, and kept adding to it during all her time at school. She had soon realized it would not see any use, ever, unless she somehow became the ruler of Wizarding Britain, but had kept at it out of sheer stubbornness when faced with injustice and ineptitude. And who would have thought - now she and Harry did rule Wizarding Britain! She handed the folder over to McGonagall.

“The governors will never agree to that!” McGonagall managed to stammer.

Hermione’s smile showed cruelty and disdain worthy of Snape at his worst. “The board is no longer of any concern. Its members are either dead or have fled Britain.” Voldemort’s cronies, or Dumbledore’s sheep, good riddance to either. She leaned forward. “It’s a new magical world, Headmistress, and the old guard is gone.”

“We’re not finished yet,” Hermione said when McGonagall was about to stand up. “We haven’t even touched one of the most important subjects yet.” The old woman sat down with a look of confusion on her face.

“Discipline,” Hermione explained. “The days of Hogwarts breeding Death Eaters will not continue. The days when the Headmaster protected criminals from justice will never come back either. Hogwarts will no longer tolerate bigotry and bullying.” She waved McGonagall’s delusional protests that Hogwarts had never done so away. “Stop your lies.” Hermione glared at McGonagall. “You protected, coddled and trained bigots, teaching them that they were better than mudbloods and blood traitors, that they could do anything they wanted without consequences. And they grew up, and went on to mass murder normal people, as they had been taught to. If I wasn’t sure you did that only because you are too bloody stupid to think for yourself, blindly followed Dumbledore’s delusional orders and were too much of a coward to stand up against Umbridge and Snape, you’d be pushed through the Veil for that.”

Apparently, the Headmistress still had some spine left. She stood up, the folder falling to the floor. “How dare you!” McGonagall bellowed, her voice filled with anger, frustration and indignation. “I fought against Grindelwald’s forces, I fought against the Death Eaters in the 70s, I was in the Order of the Phoenix before you were even born! How dare you call me a coward!”

Hermione stood up herself, facing the old woman. “I was a student for six years, remember? I was called ‘mudblood’ almost daily by Malfoy and his ilk, and no teacher intervened, ever. He could even threaten me and every other muggleborn student in front of staff when Mrs. Norris was found petrified, and no one did anything. Do you remember that?”

Harry raised his scarred hand again, supporting her. “Keep your head down, McGonagall.” He sneered at her. Hermione saw that as expected, he had his wand in hand. If McGonagall so much as pointed her wand in Hermione’s direction she’d die right there.

Hermione stared her old teacher down. “Yes, I am calling you a coward, or an idiot. Too stupid or spineless to stand up against Dumbledore, Snape or Umbridge, you let them torture and break children. You never did anything against Snape, didn’t counter his unfair punishments, and let all the bullying the bigots did happen. You did nothing when the students banded together against Harry in our second year, you didn’t do anything when Malfoy spread those hateful buttons in our fourth year, you did not do anything against Umbridge when she was torturing Harry, you let her ruin the education of an entire school, you didn’t do anything when Harry was sent back to an abusive home every year, and you left fighting against Voldemort to a few children. Sit down and shut up!”

Reeling, mouth moving, but no words forming on her lips, and with the glint of tears in her eyes - of shame or anger, Hermione didn’t know - McGonagall did exactly that. Hermione allowed herself a brief smile.

“Hogwarts’ way to discipline students will change. First, any crimes will be handled by the DMLE. No exceptions. There are no ‘internal matters’ anymore, swept under the carpet to protect a criminal while Pomfrey patches up the victims. Whenever a student gets hurt the DMLE will be called in. Further, we are witches and wizards, not mundanes. You’ll use magical means to determine the guilty party in disciplinary matters if needed. We have Veritaserum, we have spells, enchanted objects and we can swear magical oaths. The days when a victim had no recourse because ‘witnesses’ covered for the culprit are gone. That goes for teachers too - everyone has to follow the law and guidelines.

“With regards to punishments, House Points will disappear. They only divide the school and promote bullying. The days where you could subtract 50 points for something another teacher subtracted 5 points for, and then have the students’ House turn on them to punish them further are gone. Any punishment will only affect the guilty students, not anyone else. Needless to say that any punishment will not endanger students, and will be appropriate for the offense committed.” Hermione leaned forward again and whispered: “Should you ever send out students into the Forbidden Forest or a similar danger again as punishment again, I’ll personally shove you through the Veil, McGonagall!”

The old witch jerked at that, and looked away.

“There will be a code of conduct for any staff - taken from normal schools. Anyone who cannot follow it will be fired. Teachers will be expected to keep up with their subject, not repeat outdated lessons for decades.” Hermione smiled again - now came a subject dear to her heart. “The last staff changes concern the house-elves.” Harry smiled as well.

“You might have missed it, but there were changes made to the laws regarding house-elf ownership.” Again she cut off the old witch’s words. “I know - they die if not bonded. However, that does not mean they need to be kept in slavery. The new law makes ownership of a house-elf illegal unless the house-elf is willing, and any owner has to swear an Unbreakable Vow to not abuse them and to let them pick another owner anytime they choose to. And to inform them of that right regularly.”

Hermione grinned - she was pretty proud of that law, it de facto freed the house-elves without legally setting them free. She wasn’t sure how many elves realized what the new law did, but as long as everyone was happy… ignorance was bliss in the case of the house-elves.

“As the Headmistress you’ll be swearing that vow too, as will the Deputy Headmaster. Of course you’ll swear another Unbreakable Vow too, as will any teacher tainted by Dumbledore’s policies: You’ll swear to treat all students fairly and equally, without regards to political machinations or family. The welfare of a student comes before the greater good.” Then she twisted the knife. “Of course, that vow shouldn’t really affect a decent teacher, right?”

McGonagall could only nod weakly. She was trembling worse than a first year taken apart by Snape; all her faults, weaknesses and mistakes - she probably didn’t think of them as crimes yet - thrown into her face.

Hermione nodded, satisfied. She had waited seven years for that! “As I said, we’ll pass the laws soon, you just got a heads up so you can start looking for competent teachers and begin the needed changes. I’d advise you to talk to the heads of mundane schools to learn from their experiences, but I doubt you could do so without some coaching how to act in the real world, so that will have to wait.” Privately, she had a bet going with Harry how long the fossil would last when forced to run a real school.

“Now that we have talked to you, there’s another person we need to talk to.” She glanced at Harry, whose face now showed grim anticipation. “Or rather, a portrait of a former Headmaster.”

McGonagall paled.

*****


	3. Dumbledore's Portrait

**Chapter 3: Dumbledore’s Portrait**

Harry Potter left the empty classroom with Hermione and McGonagall, feeling a bit of a tingle as he walked through the door - a lot of spells and wards had been cast to protect their privacy. Outside Dean and Robert Smith were waiting. The Headmistress didn’t seem to notice anything, as shaken as she was, but Harry did, and Hermione likely did too.

“Some students have been hanging around nearby.” The flat tone of Robert’s statement implied that he had already been planning to do something about them.

McGonagall didn’t miss that, and gasped: “They are children! This is a school!”

The four visitors met her outraged face with blank stares. “I killed my first man when I was eleven,” Harry said casually. He didn’t show it, but he enjoyed the way the old teacher jerked at that. A small reminder of how she had been party to ruining his childhood, and she deflated. Or perhaps it was the reminder of how dangerous he was, and how much experience he had fighting. Once he would have cared about the fear he might have caused, but after the war? If fear was what kept the purebloods from harming normal people, then fear he would cause.

Hermione had been looking around, wand ready. “Let’s go to the office. We don’t have all day - there’s a country to run, after all.”

The small group continued on over one of Hogwarts’ moving stairs. Harry felt quite nostalgic - moving staircases was part of Hogwarts for him. Though not nostalgic enough to prevent Hermione from planning to do away with those things for offending her organized nature. Near the gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the Headmistress’s office a corpulent wizard was waiting for them, a wide smile on his face. Horace Slughorn, Potions Master and Head of House Slytherin. The born networker.

“Horace, this is not the time to…” McGonagall was about to send him his way, but it was not her day - he cut her off, ignored her practically, by speaking to Harry and Hermione.

As was his wont, he laid it on thick. “Madam Minister, Chief Warlock - there’s been a situation in the Slytherin dorms.”

*****

Minerva McGonagall saw how Harry and Miss Granger tensed up, and how their two bodyguards had their wands out. Smith even had a muggle device out, a fireleg, if Minerva remembered her muggle studies correctly. It had to be an older model though, she knew the modern ones were smaller, this was bulky, with a long grip, probably meant to be held with both hands, though he held it with one. She was about to protest and tell Horace that internal matters were just that, internal, but the sight of four people ready to kill shut her up. She didn’t feel like tempting fate.

“Please elaborate, Professor Slughorn,” Miss Granger ordered.

The teacher was happy to do so. “I’ve confined the House to the dorms due to overhearing some of the older students talking about taking revenge for the death of some criminal family members after news of your arrival made the rounds. I fear this is a matter for the DMLE.” He sounded honestly sad about the fact that he had just called the same men who had thrown the majority of the Ministry’s purebloods through the Veil to Hogwarts. Or given them the excuse to do so.

Miss Granger nodded and took out a small mirror. “Ministry Office. Granger speaking.” She was answered by a female voice, too low to be understood by McGonagall. “Send officers to Hogwarts. We have a possible conspiracy here. Standard Veritaserum protocols.” The female voice answered with an affirmative sound, and she stashed the mirror again.

She smiled at Slughorn. “Thank you, professor. You possibly saved a lot of lives with your quick thinking.”

Horace answered with a smile that looked as sincere - for all that was worth - as his usual meaningless compliments in the staff meetings to Minerva. “I was just doing my duty, Minister. I won’t hold you up any longer.”

Minerva wanted to tear the hide off the corpulent wizard, but she couldn’t leave the four visitors standing there, they’d probably kill the next student that ran by! She shot the potioneer’s back a glare that promised dire consequences and had the gargoyle open the stairs to her office.

*****

The office hadn’t changed that much since the last time the two had been in there. Less of Dumbledore’s knickknacks, a bit more austere, no lemon drops of course, but all in all it had not changed. Like Hogwarts. Not that Harry Potter cared much, his attention was fixed on Dumbledore’s portrait. Hermione placed a hand on his shoulders and squeezed, comforting him. Harry took a deep breath, and stepped forward, to face his old mentor and tormentor.

“Hello Headmaster.” His voice was flat, but his eyes betrayed the emotional turmoil he was going through. Hermione stepped up and placed her hand on the small of his back. The contact helped.

“Headmaster.” Her own greeting was precise, clipped, and devoid of any warmth. Their two guards and McGonagall had stayed back. This was between those two and the painting.

“Harry my boy. Miss Granger.” The portrait had the old man’s casually-condescending voice down pat.

Before it could launch into whatever speech it had prepared, Harry interrupted it. “That’s Chief Warlock and Madam Minister to you.”

“Harry, there’s no need to be formal.” The portrait had the same tendency to ignore whatever didn’t fit its world as the real Dumbledore had tended to suffer from. Such as abusive guardians, and abusive teachers.

“On the contrary, there’s a dire need to be formal, to keep this talk civilized.” Not that he expected the portrait to understand and heed his words, Dumbledore had always treated him like a child. And yes, there it went again.

“Harry, I fear this new position, this power, has gotten to you. You are far too young to…”

“Shut up!” And there went Harry’s temper. “For once, just shut your fucking mouth and stop talking out of your ass!” Hermione pulled herself closer to him, pressing her side into his, calming him down. He took a deep breath while the portrait gaped.

“You ruined my life. You ruined countless lives. If not for you, so many of my friends would still be alive… and you still try to talk as if you know best. Pathetic!”

That seemed to get through to the portrait. It glared back. “Harry, I did my best to save lives. To protect people. To protect children. And what do I hear? You killed so many in cold blood, entire families gone… if only I had been there to prevent that.” It actually sounded like it cared - but then, they were talking about purebloods. Hermione had been right, of course - the Headmaster was a bigot too. Had been, this was just his portrait left.

“I did what I had to, and will continue to do what I have to, to protect people. Unlike you, I’ll not sacrifice the innocent to save the guilty. I’ll not make your mistakes - if they were mistakes to start with anyway, and not planned crimes.”

“Harry, I did my best to make sure you were safe, and had as happy a childhood as was possible. Sadly, due to the threat from Voldemort, the results may have left something to be desired…” Again the patronizing tone, dead on.

“If that was your best, then I fear what your worst would have been. Oh, wait - I know what your worst was. Hundreds of innocents dead, murdered by people you protected and enabled. Scum you saved so they could kill again and again.”

“Harry, the death of anyone is a tragedy, that’s why killing is so wrong. That’s why you need to turn back from the path you have taken...”

Harry bared his teeth in what could be called a cynical smile if one was half-blind and squinted. The portrait was as fixated on him as the old goat had been, and was ignoring Hermione. Of course, she was just a mudblood, of no consequence to the great Dumbledore.

“Do you know the saying ‘Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me’?” Harry asked. “The Death Eaters and their supporters fooled you after the death of my parents, and as a result, muggleborns and normal people were mass murdered a generation later. Our children will not face the same menace,” the young man said while he took Hermione’s hand, squeezing it once. She smiled at him warmly, and blinked to clear her eyes.

The portrait gaped at him. “Harry! You are speaking of murder! I already fear that your soul has been shredded! No more, for your own sake if nothing else.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Executing criminals is not murder, Headmaster. If it was, why didn’t you ever change the laws and forbid the death penalty?” It opened its mouth to answer, but the woman was not letting it speak in its defense. “You were the king of Wizarding Britain after your defeat of Gellert Grindelwald. You spared him, you could have easily abolished the death penalty if you had used your influence then. And yet you only saved him, not future criminals. You let the DMLE torture prisoners, drive them insane with dementors. It was under your rule that Voldemort rose. It was under your rule that Fudge came to power. You refused to become Minister for Magic, you let Malfoy worm his way into the Ministry with bribes and threats. You did nothing to stop Voldemort’s murderers.”

The portrait was looking angry now - an expression rarely seen on Dumbledore, he had usually hidden behind a mask of patronizing disappointment.

“That’s a lie! I did what I could to stop the darkness falling over Britain. My friends and I sacrificed our lives to battle the Dark Lord!”

“You sacrificed countless normal people and muggleborns as well, without asking them if they wanted to pay for your mistakes! You and your friends died because of your own stupidity.” Hermione was winding up, a beautiful sight in Harry’s opinion, as long as one wasn’t the target of her ire. “If you had acted in time, had started to fight the Death Eaters and their sympathisants right away after our fourth year, without giving them time to build up their forces we could have won the war without losing so many of our friends. There wouldn’t have been a war if you hadn’t been such a bigot. You even spared Voldemort’s inner circle after they were captured at the end of our fifth year, instead of killing them, or having them executed. As a result, they were freed later, and fought for Voldemort again. The death of all their victims is on your head!”

That riled the portrait up even more - but then, a mudblood daring to talk back to the great Dumbledore was not something he was used to. “And if I had acted as you wanted me to, taken the law into my own hands, started killing suspected Death Eaters and those suspected to share their views, what would that have made me? How would I have been different from the Dark Lord, had I started murdering people and forced Britain to bend to my will?”

Hermione winced, then hardened her expression. “If the law leads to innocents getting murdered, then it’s obviously wrong to heed it! If the government is corrupt, then it’s obviously wrong to support it!”

“You have no idea what you are talking about. You don’t understand how the Wizarding World works.”

Before he could add some patronizing comment about that being typical for mudbloods, the Minister for Magic cut his drivel off. “I know how the world works, better than you. For all your lies and bigotry, wizards are just like normal people - only dumber in the case of purebloods. You could have stomped out bigotry against normal people after the war with Grindelwald. Even after Harry defeated Voldemort as a baby you could have destroyed that bigotry. Here he was, the Boy-Who-Lived: The son of a muggleborn and a pureblood! You could have used his example and fame to battle the bigotry and unite the magicals. Did you do anything to destroy Voldemort’s ideology of hatred towards normal people and muggleborn? No. Just as you did not press for every Death Eater to be interrogated with Veritaserum either. You were all too happy to let them lick their wounds, gather their power, and spread their poison again.”

She didn’t let him answer the accusations, too far into her rant. “Yet when it concerned yourself you were quick to use your power. When Malfoy ousted you in our second year you had that decision reversed in a hurry, and had him removed from the Board of Governors as well. And yet you did nothing against him, nothing to punish him for trying to murder children, nothing to make sure he could not do it again! And to make matters worse, you didn’t use your power to get us good teachers, but abused your power to protect bad teachers! Snape was allowed to abuse and belittle children for years, showing his bigoted snakes that yes, they were worth more than others, and yes, they could do what they wanted without consequences! He ruined the dreams of so many non-Slytherins who wanted to become healers and aurors, yet could not stomach N.E.W.T. potions - or were prevented from taking the course by his unfair teaching and grading. That alone made sure the majority of the new aurors were Slytherins, who had spent seven years learning how to be bigots - perfect recruits and traitors for Voldemort!”

“And who are all dead now, executed for their crimes,” Harry threw in. “So, all your scheming and Snape’s abuse only resulted in more dead wizards.”

Hermione nodded at him, a grim smile of satisfaction mixed with sadness on her face.

The portrait exploded. “Do you think it’s so simple to change the minds and hearts of our people? That a few words, and a reminder of my power would make them change their ways? Or would you have me follow the path of Grindelwald and Voldemort, taking over Britain as its ruler, to change it by force, crushing dissenters and sowing hatred and resentment? You speak of murder as if it was a good thing! Don’t you have any remorse for killing so many wizards? Ending so many families…”

“Remorse? I regret we did not kill them all before they could murder so many innocents!” Harry said with conviction.

“But we need every wizard, there are so few of us. Who will keep our traditions, our history alive when all the old families are gone? If we kill each other we will destroy our world.”

Hermione scoffed at the portrait. “If we needed every wizard, why did you let them drive away and kill all new magicals? Why should we respect a society who does not grant normal people like my parents any rights? Do you remember the Muggle Protection Act? A better example of the contempt and bigotry towards normal people that was ingrained in Wizarding Britain I cannot think of. We’re close to the end of the 20th century, and yet you bigots were struggling over whether you should grant some minimal protection to normal people. Normal people were just beasts to you and your ilk, or pets to laugh at and be amused by. You disgust me, and I am glad we can destroy your whole bigoted ideology!”

This time it was Harry who hugged Hermione to calm her down. Behind them McGonagall was trembling, but did not say anything.

Harry took over again when the portrait had gone through a number of meaningless lies about how of course it cared about muggles, and that the Muggle Protection Act was just making the practise of the DMLE official. “You are such a hypocrite, I am ashamed I fell for your lies for so long. You talk about how killing is wrong, and yet you worked so hard, sacrificed so many innocents, to destroy Voldemort’s horcruxes just so he could be killed! Why didn’t you want to imprison him, so he could change and abandon his evil ways? Why didn’t you want to give him a second, third and fourth chance? Why was killing Voldemort good, but killing his murdering followers evil?

The portrait was gaping, stammering about the prophecy, but it was clear it couldn’t really answer that.

“The prophecy said I’d vanquish him - which I could have done as a baby - it didn’t mean I had to kill him. We could have petrified him, so he was not alive, yet not dead. Or imprisoned him, like Grindelwald, who never managed to escape.”

He wasn’t finished yet. Years of abuse, of pain, of loss, had driven him to this point. He was ranting at a portrait, mere canvas and paint, but it felt good to unload all the resentment and anger. “You are not just a hypocrite, you’re also a fool. Remember the prophecy? You had your Order of Idiots guard it, even though that was completely useless! Only me and Voldemort could touch it. I didn’t know about it until it was too late, and none of your order could have stopped Voldemort. You got one man sent to Azkaban - no help from you, of course, just as you let Sirius rot - and Mr. Weasley almost died, all for nothing. And meanwhile, Death Eaters were recruiting, and starting to murder people. Death Eaters you knew the names of since I saw them at Voldemort’s resurrection ritual when he called out their names. And yet your Order had to guard an untouchable prophecy and would not lift a finger to fight the Death Eaters until it was too late and they had grown too strong!”

Hermione sneered. “The Order of Fools - and sadists. They let the Dursleys abuse Harry, watching under invisibility cloaks without lifting a finger to help him.” She sent a scathing glare back to McGonagall. “Just like you let the school abuse Harry in our second and fourth year, despite knowing he was innocent.”

The young passionate woman turned back to the portrait. “You let Snape abuse him here, you always favored his enemies among the students, protected them from punishment while you punished him and us. You used him as bait during the tournament, yet you were too senile to spot that a Death Eater had impersonated one of your oldest friends! And I believed in you!”

Harry hugged her close to him again. She’d not cry, not anymore, but the wounds were not healed. He narrowed his eyes.

The portrait had used the time spent consoling Hermione to recover. “Was that why you killed Kingsley? Because he had not helped you when you had to weed your aunt’s garden?” Its voice dripped with fake understanding that couldn’t hide the venom of its words.

Harry snorted. “Are you stupid? Well, yes, you are. Kingsley was executed because he had ordered his Aurors to help rape people, just as most of the Wizengamot members were executed for passing the law that made rape legal and mandatory.”

“Harry! A marriage law is not rape, it’s a measure to save our country, our world! It’s not much different from arranged marriages, common to our world. We lost so many in the war, so many were killed...”

Hermione growled. “If a society can only be saved through rape, then it deserves to be destroyed! But that’s just like you - you’ll sacrifice anyone and everyone to save the corrupt purebloods!”

“No! But it is better to sacrifice your life than your soul!”  
Hermione gaped at the portrait. Harry was shocked as well. “Is that your reasoning? That dying is no problem since death is but the next ‘great adventure’? Do you truly not care about the lives of the innocents, their suffering, as long as their souls are saved? What kind of monster are you?” If Dumbledore really believed that, no wonder he had let his oldest friends die, no wonder he had not cared about the lives of the muggleborns killed by the Ministry!

“Harry, you must let go of your hatred, it will corrupt you..”

“We will destroy your legacy and reputation. Your Wizarding Britain is already doomed. We’ve broken the power of the rich purebloods, there are not enough of them left to keep a stranglehold on the economy and government in Wizarding Britain. There are not enough of them left to keep their sick culture and traditions alive - heh, there are so few left, most old families are already extinct. In just a few years, you’ll not recognize Wizarding Britain anymore - it’ll be shaped by new magicals and normal people and purebloods who will adapt. That’s your legacy. And your reputation?” He looked at Hermione with a fond smile. The girl smiled back, and hugged him.

“I am already writing a book about the two wars with Voldemort. Among other facts it’ll list all your crimes, mistakes, and misdeeds. You will be remembered as the man who let thousands of innocents be abused, oppressed and murdered just so he could save the worst murdering scum possible. Your name will be cursed for generations!” Hermione said.

The portrait was pale now, trembling, stuttering words that made no sense. McGonagall was in a similar state. Harry took a deep breath, feeling a weight lift from his chest. It was just a portrait, but it had felt good to get this out. He glanced over to Hermione, who smiled back, feeling similarly relieved. It might be unfair to blame everything on Dumbledore, but he had been the leader, it had been his plans, his actions, and especially his inactions, who had doomed so many.

“We’ll let ourselves out, Headmistress. The DMLE will have arrived by now, please make sure no student makes trouble during the investigation.”

The two smirking young people had reached the gargoyle when they heard: “Wait! What do you mean?” from above.

*****


	4. Draco's Plan

**Chapter 4 : Draco’s Plan**

McGonagall raced down the stairs of her office. She was almost panting when she reached the four people. “What do you mean?”

Hermione Granger turned around. “Did you already forget what we talked about a bit ago? Any crimes at Hogwarts will be handled by the DMLE. No exceptions. Professor Slughorn told us there was a conspiracy here, so of course the DMLE is investigating.” She kept her face impassive, though it was hard not to smirk.

McGonagall shook her head. “No… I meant … what do you meant, about the students not making trouble during the investigation?” She was probably thinking about the ‘poor children” who had simply been plotting murder.

“I think the DMLE officers in charge of this investigation will be conducting the first interrogations here, in order to avoid arresting innocents for further questioning,” Hermione answered. Of course she knew they’d be doing that - things had been planned in advance for a while, after all. Slughorn’s revelation just meant they had more justification for their chosen course of action. “So, we need to be prepared for any attempt to free the suspects.”

Harry checked his watch. “Unless I am mistaken the DMLE has already started to secure the dorm in question.”

The Headmistress gaped at him. “What? How? Why wasn’t I informed?”

Both Harry and Hermione smirked at that. “According to the DMLE’s standard procedure, outsiders are not informed of their raids so that suspects cannot be warned in advance. Surely you did not think we’d let you warn the conspirators here by announcing it!” Hermione explained. Their two bodyguards were keeping an eye on their surroundings as they walked towards the great hall. It wasn’t as if the only pureblood supremacists were Slytherins, after all.

*****

The five reached the Great Hall, where a group of hard-faced men and women was waiting for them. Minerva McGonagall blinked - they were not wearing the red robes of Aurors, as she had expected. Most were clad in black clothes of muggle origin, with some sort of harness over cloth vests. And lots of pouches. And those muggle firelegs were present among a few. The only one not in such strange clothes was wearing the same suit - or close to - as Harry was, and greeted them.

“Madam Minister, Chief Warlock. We’ve secured the Slytherin dorm, and have disarmed the suspects inside. We we had to use force to subdue a few, and one of my men was wounded by a dark curse when one suspect managed to cast a Bubblehead Charm before the tear gas took effect. The suspect, one Theodore Nott, was killed.”

Minerva gasped in dismay, Harry and Hermione just nodded.

“Good work, Keagan.” Miss Granger said, smiling at the man! Didn’t they feel bad about the death of a student?

Minerva suddenly recognized the man. Keagan Parker, a muggleborn student of hers. He graduated in ‘84. Last she had heard he had been working as a janitor at a shop in Diagon Alley. She remembered feeling disappointed that a student with such promising grades ended up there. He would have been a prefect too if not for multiple violent interactions with other students. Mostly Slytherins now that she recalled it. The Headmaster had called it ‘an unfortunate tendency to react with violence instead of forgiveness to childish taunts’. Hadn’t his parents been killed too, in the war? Her trip down memory lane was interrupted. “Pardon?”

“Please call the students to the Great Hall so we can disarm them. We want to avoid further incidents and proceed with the investigation.” Parker’s expression looked more like a manticore baring its teeth than a smile.

Minerva sputtered with outrage and beginning panic - take the wands away from her students? They hadn’t done a thing! - but she had no choice but to give in. There were too many of those ‘officers’ around, and no Auror in sight. Soon just about all students of the other three houses were disarmed and in the Great Hall, under guard. Most looked nervous, a few though - muggleborns all of them - were grinning wildly. She had had to bite her tongue not to lash out at one who loudly asked his friend if they’d be able to watch the ‘Death Eater executions’. Minerva was at the staff table, without her wand as well, as were the rest of the professors - other than Binns, who was still lecturing an empty classroom. Horace, the toady, had handed his wand over as if it were not a deadly insult to be asked to. This was Hogwarts, not the Ministry! She glared at the fat Potions Master at the staff table, where he was calmly sitting in his usual seat, and stalked over to him.

“Horace! What were you thinking, calling the Inquisition down on children!” That was what purebloods had taken to call the new DMLE, claiming it was a new Witch Hunt. Minerva used it for the first time today. After seeing those ‘officers’ in black muggle clothes standing guard over her students she felt it fit.

Horace just smiled at her. “I was thinking of the children, of course. To save their future.”

Minerva gaped - she did that a lot this day, she realized. “Explain!”

****

Horace Slughorn smiled widely at the Headmistress, and his tone grew smug. “You know House Slytherin’s reputation as the prime recruiting ground for the Dark Lord’s forces. It’s not exactly true that everyone joined him, but too many wizards and witches see every Slytherin as a future murderer and rapist. They’ll be ostracized and blacklisted. Like muggleborns were in the past.” His smile turned nasty as he remembered how much trouble he had had, despite his excellent network of contacts and his own reputation, to find an apprenticeship for Lily Potter, the most talented witch of her generation. “With everyone being interrogated with Veritaserum though, and their innocence proven, that taint will be removed.” From the innocents, of course, and not completely. Some prejudice would remain, but that was the way the wind was blowing - and would be blowing for the future, given how many purebloods, or rather, how few, were left. Though for the true Slytherins, it would not matter. They’d network, make contacts, and fit into the new order. With his help, of course. For those clinging to the past… they’d have no future. Literally none, for many - he knew too well what kind of vipers populated his house, and what they had done.

“But… the use of Veritaserum on a student is forbidden!” Minerva protested. Horace almost sighed. She simply was too stubborn, too Gryffindor, to adapt well to such changes.

“Not anymore. The new Minister for Magic was not pleased to find out that the only reason it was forbidden was not because it was a risk to a student’s health, but the wish of purebloods to protect their criminal children while they were at school.” Horace smiled. “I think it’ll help a lot to be able to easily find out the truth of any incident between students. But that aside, as you can see, I am acting in the interests of my students. Of the innocent students.” His smile stayed while his eyes grew hard. “Sadly, I fear that a few of my snakes have crossed lines that shouldn’t have been crossed, but their removal will mean the school itself will be a much safer place for everyone else.”

And of course it would cement his place on the side of the new regime. A skilled networker, Horace had acted quickly once he realized who was winning, to make sure his past… mistakes… would be outweighed by his current collaboration. Fortunately, he had just made mistakes, had not done enough to help, but he had not actually committed any crimes.

Minerva stared at him, lips moving without a sound, then they pressed together until they formed a thin line, and with glaring eyes she turned away. He wondered if she’d realize the truth of his words, and what they meant for the rest of the houses. While they had harbored much fewer followers of Voldemort, no house and few teachers had been as friendly towards muggleborns and muggles as they claimed, and the new Minister and Chief Warlock were only too well aware of that. If dear Minerva didn’t adapt enough… well, he was willing to shoulder more responsibility, should he be called upon. Horace had a house-elf refill his glass and smiled at the possibilities he was thinking of.

*****

Hermione Granger carefully kept her expression neutral as she returned with Harry to the Great Hall, trailed by their two guards and Parker. Following them were the floating bodies of the stunned students of House Slytherin and a few Slytherins who had surrendered right away. Gasps and cries as well as laughter from dozens of students filled the hall, and excited whispers rose in volume. Hermione stepped into the center of the hall and cast an Amplifying Charm on herself.

“Students, Staff,” she started while the noise quieted down. “As you have noticed the DMLE has taken control of the castle following reports of a conspiracy against the government. The officers are currently investigating…” she waited while students who were not ignorant of the normal world explained to pureblood students that ‘officers’ were ‘muggle Aurors’. Even as Minister for Magic she hated to leave others ignorant. She coughed and silenced the starting discussion “... though we’ve already found evidence of multiple crimes.”

They had that evidence even before they came here, and it didn’t cover the conspiracy Slughorn had revealed, but no need to mention that. “As a former student myself, I know how quickly lies and rumors are spreading in Hogwarts, and I know the staff will not intercede on the behalf of the truth, so in order to avoid future misunderstandings, I’ll explain the procedure we will be following. We’ll be interrogating the suspects here, with their Head of House and the Headmistress present.” She smiled maliciously at McGonagall while the hall filled with excited conversations again.

A public trial would follow, of course - they already knew what would be revealed. Slughorn had been really useful, and so quick to swear an Unbreakable Vow that he had told them the truth about the conspiracy.

Hermione, Harry and Kegan, followed by two officers and McGonagall and Slughorn moved to a private room in the dungeons - a fitting location, the witch thought, for an interrogation. At a nod from her, Keagan had the first stunned Slytherin floated to a quickly conjured chair in the middle of the hall. An Ennervate and Incarcerous later, Draco Malfoy woke up and found himself the center of attention. As was to be expected, the last of the British branch of House Malfoy started to curse and threaten at once, with his usual lack of creativity, wit and intelligence. A Silencing Charm put an end to that, and three drops of Veritaserum later he was dazed enough for the charm to be finited and the interrogation to begin.

After a few control questions Keagan started the interrogation. “Did you plan to attack the Minister for Magic and the Chief Warlock today?”

“Yes.” Draco answered in a droning voice.

“Did you want to kill them?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you want to kill them?”

“They murdered my father.”

“Your father was executed, not murdered. Who was helping you?”

“Parkinson. Goyle. Nott. Bulstrode.”

“How did you plan to kill the Minister and the Chief Warlock?”

“I wanted to poison their food by imperiusing a house-elf in the kitchen.”

Hermione almost sighed. Malfoy had tried poisoning in their 6th year, did he really think they’d fall for that again? All the imagination of a brick. Keagan posed a few more questions, revealing that the conspirators had not gone beyond planning. Then he exchanged a glance with Hermione and Harry, and started a new inquiry.

“What were your plans with regards to the Marriage Law?”

“I wanted to marry Granger.” McGonagall gasped audibly and Hermione glared at her.

“Did you love her?”

“No.”

“Why did you want to marry her then?”

“To teach the mudblood her place.”

“How would you do that?”

As it turned out Hermione had to revise her estimate. Draco had quite the imagination as he proved when he laid out his plans for her. In detail. Keagan had to cut him short when he became too graphic, the young Death Eater was quite obsessed with Hermione. She would have been shocked if not for the testimonies of the Death Eaters in front of the Tribunals they had heard earlier, and even so several times she had trouble to restrain herself from killing Draco on the spot. Harry of course was struggling with that urge himself, she knew, especially when the Slytherin revealed that he would have rendered Hermione sterile first so he could have the marriage annulled under the new law once he ‘had had his fill of the mudblood’ and to ‘prevent the mudblood form spawning’ before ‘marrying a pureblood bride to give him an heir’.

When he explained he expected other purebloods to force marriage on Hermione afterwards - the law didn’t prevent marriages with sterile partners nor annulling the marriage for that reason despite prior knowledge of the condition - Hermione glanced over at the Headmistress. The old witch didn’t meet her eyes.

On further questioning Draco revealed how he had earned his dark mark - by raping and killing a muggle girl in front of Voldemort. Apparently, that was the bare minimum needed to get the dark mark. Thankfully, Keagan had cut short Draco’s detailed account again, but made sure to have Draco state that he didn’t think muggles were anything but vermin. Hermione wondered aloud if Dumbledore had known about this, seeing as Snape had been reading the minds of his students, when he had done so much to save Malfoy in their 6th year.

*****

After calming himself - he had known it would be bad, though it was still shocking - but still close to trembling with rage Harry Potter had Keagan ask another question he had wondered about. And had made a bet with Hermione about, though neither was currently in the mood to care about that.

“Why didn’t you kill Albus Dumbledore when he was at your mercy?”

“I was afraid it was a trap. It was too easy. He was Dumbledore, the one who beat Grindelwald. And he was waiting for me, as if he wanted me to cast. It had to be a trap. Some spell prepared, to kill me. Some alchemical set up to turn the tables.”

Harry nodded to himself, feeling vindicated. He had been sure the ferret had been afraid. Hermione had speculated that Malfoy had felt some trepidation at attacking the greatest wizard of the old generation, one who had always protected the purebloods, and had simply dithered too long, but she hadn’t been there. Too bad they hadn’t known this before their talk with the portrait, that would have been another fact to throw into his face, that the vaunted remorse of Malfoy hadn’t been remorse at all.

The interrogation ended and Draco was given the counter to the serum. There would be a more thorough interrogation at the DMLE HQ, but it was enough to impress the staff here. Once he had all his wits again - not that he had much to start with - Malfoy was alternatively begging for mercy and cursing and threatening again as he was dragged outside to be portkeyed to the prison cells. At least his father had shown some composure when he was pushed through the veil, even though he had sprouted pureblood drivel until the end. Harry expected Draco would be crying and sobbing when his time came. Narcissa Malfoy would have shown more steel, or so he thought, but she had poisoned herself before she could be arrested. Probably to protect her son.

Goyle, Parkinson and Bulstrode were interrogated as well, though not as extensively. Nott, of course, was already dead. Goyle was a no-brainer, no pun intended. He went along with everything Malfoy wanted, and really liked to torture people, but he had nothing else to add, other than his own initiation into the Death Eaters, another murder rape. Parkinson was a female version of Draco, though she wanted to marry him and have all her - likely imagined - rivals forced into marriages with mudbloods to ‘spoil’ them so Draco would not pick any of them. She had a big list of rivals too, many of which were among the students and would like want to rend her to pieces should they hear of her plans. Or her description of her own initiation into the ranks of the death eaters. Bulstrode was another Goyle, a follower without a conscience. She was simply hoping for a marriage at all thanks to the new law, fearing to remain single for her life. It would have been sad if not for her account of how she tortured muggleborns and muggles during Voldemort’s reign.

*****

Minerva McGonagall was trembling by the time Bulstrode finished and had been dragged away. Finally, this nightmare was over. She had known the students were not the innocent children Albus had wanted to see, but this… she’d never expected such. Slughorn looked grim. And to her horror, it was not finished yet. One by one the remaining Slytherins who were of age were dragged in the room and made to sit on the chair and either swore a vow to truthfully answer, or were drugged with Veritaserum. Those who implicated themselves in crimes - and while not the majority by far, far too many for Minerva’s peace of mind did - were arrested. Some though were revealed to abhor the pureblood ideology - a stance no doubt helped along by the prior revelations. A few had tried to run, and were brought down, or so she heard. Brutally, with a bonebreaker hex to the legs in one case, and a bludgeoning hex that threw the student into a wall five meters away in another. Pomfrey apparently had to render emergency aid to both. Those two were not interrogated, but simply arrested.

*****

Hermione walked to the center of the hall again, fire in her eyes. An Amplifying Charm followed, and she began to speak. "Students! Teachers! Some claim the Marriage Law was meant to save our world. That was a lie, and today’s testimonies have just proven this again! It was meant to save the power of the purebloods, the same purebloods who had just tried to murder all normal people and muggleborns! It was meant to allow them to rape us, break us! All in the name of saving a culture that already considered us second class citizens.

“This is not some coincidence, or the work of a dark lord! This is the result of pureblood inbreeding and isolation! Ignorance and arrogance bred bigotry and racism and led to rape and murder! Look around you! Those of you born in the normal world, what do you see? An old castle, bereft of anything more modern than a magical radio! Is this something to be proud of? A life without television, computers, telephones, paper and pens?

“This is the pureblood culture at work - they are so arrogant and ignorant, they reject everything the modern world has to offer, and try to force everyone to live as primitively as they are living, thinking they are superior and refusing to accept that the world has left them behind, that we’re no longer living in the Medieval Age! Remember the muggle studies - they do not want their own people to know how primitive Wizarding Britain is, compared to the normal world. They do not want to realize how inferior they are, despite magic!

“But when we do not accept a world where we are second class citizens, where our families are treated as animals, a world where, when we expect the rights we were born with, we are oppressed and murdered so the purebloods can keep their power!

“This ends now! No longer will we let traditions that only serve purebloods stand, no longer will we accept inferior tools and solutions just because they are magical! We all are British citizens, and we deserve better than a life stuck in the Dark Ages with a thin veneer of magic! We won’t abandon our culture any longer! We will combine the best of technology and magic! When we enter the 21st century, we will be doing it as magical citizens at the side of our non magical families and friends, not peasants serving pureblood masters!”

Hermione ended her Amplifying Charm, and stepped back into the arms of Harry, trembling with emotion while he rubbed her back. Most of the students cheered, though some of them surely were just doing it out of fear, or cunning. No matter, the majority of the students seemed caught up enough in Hermione’s speech to eagerly declare their opposition to pureblood teachings without resentment.

Harry and Hermione, holding hands again, left the castle, waving, with the rest of the DMLE officers. Both were wondering how long it would take for the parents of the students to hear about and react to the arrests and Hermione’s speech.

*****

A week later, Minerva McGonagall was sitting at her desk, pondering her and her school’s future. It had taken her, still shocked by that day’s events and revelations like most of her colleagues, a while to realize that Hogwarts had changed. The DMLE had interrogated all the other older students in the next few days following the arrests of Draco Malfoy and his co-conspirators. As Horace had predicted in private, there had been pureblood supremacists in each house, though not everyone among those had committed a crime. Yet. Still, each house had lost a fair number of students, and the staff members that had observed the interrogations in lieu of absent parents had heard of more crimes they had not suspected. Or had not wanted to suspect. In more than one case the crime discovered was a revenge assault on Slytherin students for something their family had done. Those students too were arrested, which almost led to a riot. It took a quick appearance of Harry Potter himself to quiet the students down again. At least they seemed to have accepted his claims that justice would be done for everyone, with circumstances like losing family to Death Eaters being taken into account. A small consolation, Minerva thought,

She would have to rapidly start the reforms Miss Granger had demanded, or the students, riled up by the Minister’s speech, might lose all respect for the teachers. At that moment the old teacher finally understood that her whole world had already irrevocably changed. She could only hope the changes being forced through would not lead to catastrophic consequences later. At least some seemed harmless - like using ‘pens’ instead of quills.

*****


	5. Home Life

**Chapter 5: Home Life**

Harry Potter nodded a greeting at Hermione’s secretary as he walked past her and to the door to the office of the youngest Minister for Magic in Wizarding Britain’s history. The secretary, another muggleborn who had been stuck in a dead-end menial job before the Revolution, smiled back. If Harry guessed right she had been waiting for Hermione to finish so she too could call it a day and go home as well, but contrary to him, she couldn’t just drag her boss home. He could.

It had become a routine lately. He’d finish up his work, then wait for her near the apparition point of the building. She’d be late, and he’d wait, before finally heading to her office and get her. His waiting times had decreased gradually, though he still went to the meeting point - Hermione always insisted she’d be on time ‘tomorrow’. A faint smile on the lips, he entered after a perfunctory knock. Robert Smith was standing inside, near the door, and Harry was just fast enough to catch how the man relaxed a tiny bit after spotting him - and after a glance at the runes above the door, who were there to dispel glamours and detect polyjuice and compulsion spells.

“It’s time to head home, Hermione,” he announced. She glared at him with a mixture of annoyance and guilt. When she opened her mouth he cut her off. “Whatever it is it can wait till tomorrow, Hermione. Unless it’s a question of life and death.”

They had had the same discussion for two weeks now, and even the infamously stubborn Minister for Magic - everyone who remembered her S.P.E.W. campaign agreed with that description - had realized that Harry was simply not giving in. He considered a healthy work/life balance - and ironically, it had been her who had taught him about that - necessary for the health and wellbeing of her, and as everyone knew, when it came to saving his friends Harry was not giving any ground. He hadn’t forgotten the effects of her time-turner-enabled schedule on his best friend in their 3rd Year.

And so the two left with just a tiny amount of grumbling from Hermione, and almost invisible smirks on Robert’s and the secretary’s face. They went down to the apparition point, where Dean had been checking for threats, as usual, and said their goodbyes to Dean and Robert before apparating to No. 12 Grimmauld Place. As soon as they had arrived they apparated away again though - the house was no longer dark and filthy and had been cleared of curses and traps by a team from Gringotts, but Harry didn’t want to live in Sirius’s last prison, as he called it privately. The house only served, or would serve to be precise, should it ever be needed in that capacity, for public functions that required to be held at the home of the Minister or Chief Warlock. So far they had not found any, and would likely change any that were discovered, but Hermione felt better being prepared. And of course it made them safer if the militant purebloods left thought they were living in the ancestral home of the Blacks.

Harry and Hermione actually lived in a modern flat in a normal building in London. Both arrived and were immediately greeted by Winky, their house elf. Another concession of Hermione, though Harry suspected she was secretly very glad she now had a reason to drop the agreement of sharing the chores equally - an agreement she had insisted upon vehemently when they decided to live together and he offered to do most of them. At least the first week together had put an end to Hermione’s notion of living ‘without using magic for everything like those pureblood idiots’, and she had quickly learned every housekeeping charm she could get her hands on when she realized how much time all those chores would cost her. Time she could better spend reading, learning, and cuddling.

Harry and Hermione’s jackets were lifted off their shoulders and floated away while Winky informed them of the meal she had prepared. She actually asked if it was to their liking, and would replace it with another meal else should either of the two young people even hint at preferring something else, but both Harry and Hermione felt better not dwelling on that, and enjoyed their dinner.

Afterwards the two found themselves, as usual, on the couch in the living room. The TV was on, but neither paid any attention to it. Today’s events were on their minds. Or rather, today’s events, the events that would follow in the near future, and the events of the past weeks were on their minds. And their rather crucial roles in all of it.

“Draco will be executed,” Harry started, pulling Hermione closer to him.

“He deserves it.”

“Indeed.”

A long pause followed.

“They all deserved it, Hermione.”

“I know. Each individual execution was justified. Veritaserum, witnesses, vows.” She didn’t mention the deaths caused by the riot that turned into a mob storming the Ministry and Wizengamot. Both knew that had to have cost innocent lives on either side. But if they had not started it, had not finished it, then down the road far more would have died. And even more would have died for nothing. Or so Harry told himself.

“But when I add them all up it’s such a big number… it feels wrong to kill so many,” Hermione said. “Of course, many other revolutions had had a much larger body count, but they usually had much larger populations to start with. By some definitions - Huttenbach’s to be precise, if shortened and entirely taken out of context - it was a genocide. Of course, the purebloods attempt to to wipe out all ‘mudbloods’ was a textbook case of attempted genocide according to every definition.” She shook her head. “It’s really weird. Normally, the individual deaths have a larger emotional impact than the statistics. Here it’s the opposite.”

Harry hugged her tightly - as tightly as she hugged him when he needed it. “If one thousand men do a crime, one thousand men have to be judged.” She must have still been thinking by Dumbledore’s accusations, he thought.

Hermione sighed and closed her eyes. “I know. To be honest, it’s not so much the number of deaths, but the number of bigots we discover. The number of pureblood wizards and witches who loathe and despise normal people and muggleborn.” She frowned.

Harry knew she was searching for a ‘better word’, being of the opinion that ‘muggleborn’ was degrading. He didn’t have much hope for that, given her past efforts.

“Before this, I didn’t know how many wizards were bigots. How many thought I was worth less than them just for being born to the wrong kind of people. I thought, I hoped, that they were just terrified of Voldemort, and going along with it to save themselves, but… they look down on us, and on all non-magicals. They really do not want us around until we’re totally brainwashed into accepting that we’ll be second class citizens until a few generations down our grandchildren are as bigoted as the rest and look down on new muggleborns. A job Hogwarts was doing for decades.”

Harry kissed the top of her head. “They have no choice now but to accept it that the tables have turned.”

Hermione laughed cynically. “The ones that are left, that is.”

Harry snorted. “At least our children won’t have to deal with either Dumbledore’s ideas of education and morals, or Malfoy’s bigotry.” Then he froze. “I mean, not that I want children right now, we’ve got so much work to do, and things are still shaky, it would be very irresponsible to, you know…”

Hermione placed her index on his lips to stop his babbling. They had talked about that before, he was just repeating her arguments. He’d not press her, but at least his babbling had shaken her out of her funk. They had to consider the future, not the past.

Licking her lips, she shifted around a bit and whispered into his ear: “But, Chief Warlock, we can surely … revise and prepare... for the day when we are ready?”

Harry nodded quickly, shaking her finger off his lips, and carried her into their bedroom. Both forgot their worries until the next day.

*****

The dinner at the Burrow was as lively as ever - on the surface. Only those who knew the family intimately would have been able to pick up on the slight tension that was present during the family dinner. And of such people few were left after the war, and fewer after the Revolution. Percy Weasley couldn’t think of any, actually, who were not related to them. He wasn’t even sure if Hermione and Harry would be able to spot the changes that had happened to the family - or if they would know the reasons for it. He doubted it. Hermione, for all her intelligence, had always been a bit… behind when it came to relationships. Maybe ‘reserved’ was a better word. It wouldn’t do to think ill of his boss, after all, especially a boss with such a body count to her name.

But the changes were there. For outsiders they might look and sound as loud and lively as they had before the war, but they were not. In the past Molly would have not hesitated a second to tell everyone of her children what she thought they should do. And loudly too. Now though she kept glancing at him before voicing her opinion, and her utter conviction that she knew best for everyone was gone.

“You’ve cooked a great meal, mum,” Percy stated. He had changed too. In the past he would have called her ‘mother’, if only to distance himself from his brothers. As one of six - five now, he thought, briefly feeling the pain of the loss of Fred again in full - brothers one used what one could in order to try to become more than ‘number 3 of the Weasleys’. Nowadays he called her ‘mum’, to make her - and himself - feel closer.

He was telling the truth too, of course - Molly Weasley cooked better than anyone he knew, professionals included. Not that he knew many restaurants, his financial situation hadn’t allowed him to eat out much at the more expensive places when he was living estranged from his family, and then the war had taken its toll. Now he had, or soon would have, the means to try out those muggle places Justin was often talking about during their breaks, but he was needed at home.

George was not around today, he claimed work. Percy suspected he was trying to forget the loss of his twin with the help of a bottle or three. Again. He really needed to get Angelina to look George up, but he had to be subtle, or either George, Angelina, or both would resent him for meddling. And he’d prefer to avoid that, if he could. He suppressed the sigh he wanted to let slip, thinking of his younger brother. And his dead younger brother. Many of his peers were appalled at the mass executions following the Revolution, but Percy welcomed them with open arms. Those murdering scum had taken Fred’s life, almost destroyed his family, and would have gotten away with it if not for Harry and Hermione, and for the Wizengamot’s arrogance and stupidity. And each dead pureblood Death Eater meant one less obstacle to the career plans of him, the son of the poorest well-known pureblood family. No one would be looking down on his children, that he had promised himself, or call them ‘poorblood’.

Oh, he knew that currently every opportunist was claiming a muggle ancestor, or at least a muggleborn friend, and taking crash courses in muggle studies. A fair number were being tutored by Arthur, and Percy could barely hide his mirth at that. He loved his father, but he knew Arthur was not a real expert on muggles. Those purebloods currying favor with the new regime were simply too stupid or still too bigoted to ask a real muggle or a muggleborn for help. Not that it would help them much.

Percy had thought things through, ever since he first heard about the proposed Marriage Law. He had made one blunder in the past, betting on the wrong horse in the struggle between Fudge and Dumbledore, and it had almost cost him his family and his career. He was determined not to make the same mistake again. Anyone familiar with Hermione and Harry would have known they’d not accept that law. He glanced at Ron, Ginny and Molly, and had to amend that thought. Almost anyone. And after the war anyone who had seen them, and not what the wishful thinking of Dumbledore’s cronies had wanted them to be, would have realized that neither Harry nor Hermione were the children who had entered the war anymore. They would not, despite what everyone seemed to have thought, simply continue the plans of Dumbledore.

So he had put some feelers out and kept in touch with the rest of the DA. And he had met Hermione and Harry, and realized that they were, as the muggle saying went, playing for keeps. Sure, one could have mistaken Hermione’s rant as coming from the same girl who ranted about house-elves or assignments, but that girl, Percy understood at that moment, had died in the war. In the end, it had been an easy decision: No one with half a brain would want to be on the wrong side of the two who did more than anyone else to win the war against Voldemort - the Dark Lord who, at the time, had had far more power at his command than the current Ministry.

It had taken Percy a lot of effort, and not a small amount of subterfuge and outright manipulation, but he managed to make Arthur quit the Ministry in protest of the new law, together with him. Mainly because he had promised - technically, it hadn’t been a promise, more a declared intention - to start a business investigating muggle items and trying to replace them with magic versions. He did that, too, though his contribution remained purely financial.

After the Revolution, Percy had told Arthur that he felt he had to return and work for the new Ministry, as one of the few with experience who were untainted by the earlier administration. Arthur, at that point, was too shaken with the loss of so many colleagues - and at the hands of Harry and Hermione, who he thought of as like his own children - to realize that Percy was eager at the opportunity offered to him. So many rivals dead and disgraced, so much knowledge lost, and he was among the few pureblood employees who had stood with the muggleborns against the marriage law - even if he had just quit in protest - and was an old friend of the two new rulers of Magical Britain too. Close enough to a friend, at least. No one mentioned his unfortunate past before the war, in any case.

Percy laughed, in private, at the purebloods trying to ‘go muggleborn’. They were shortsighted and stupid. Sure, currently muggle culture was all the rage, and no one who had even the slightest fondness for even a few of the pureblood traditions would have any hope of a career, but things would change. The muggleborn would try to alter everything, and use muggle laws as their blueprints, but the magical world was different. One could not use muggle laws and simply add ‘magical’ in a few places - even the most asinine laws were once put up for good reasons. At least the ones not the result of bribery and corruption. There were far too many of those, Percy knew, far too much stupidity at work. He could not wait to straighten all that out.

But he would have to be patient. Toe the line, and wait for the first of the unavoidable blunders muggleborns would make when dealing with magical issues. Even Hermione hadn’t realized for years that house-elves couldn’t simply be freed - though her solution, Percy had to admit, when she finally found one, was an almost perfect mix of Ravenclaw’s intellect and wisdom, and Slytherin’s cunning. He would use that as an example for his own proposals, when his time would come.

And his time would come. Harry didn’t really want to rule or lead. He could do it, better than most, but he didn’t really want to. And Hermione was too smart to last as Minister for Magic. She wouldn’t be able to stomach working with so many idiots - and compared to her, many were idiots - and would eventually quit. Probably to go into research, and revolutionize magic as they knew it. But that was for the Unspeakables to care about, not for the future Minister for Magic.

Percy would use the next years to learn all he could about the muggle tools being introduced. And how he loved them! His father had never explained just how much more orderly, efficient and neat those pens, computers, phones and paper made his life and work! Arthur had always been going on about toys and tools and parts, never about muggle organisation and paperwork.

Percy glanced at his father while nodding to Molly’s complaints about Luna Lovegood’s latest addition to the rebuilt Rookery. So it was now housing an entire zoo? Anyone who had had to suffer through Hagrid’s lessons in care of monsters couldn’t be bothered about the lovegoods’ menagerie!

Arthur was an underestimated genius though, in Percy’s opinion. That man had managed to enchant a car to fly and become invisible, even to develop a life of its own, if Ron’s tales were to be trusted, and all without understanding what most of the things that made a car work did. Percy was sure he’d manage magical cellphones soon enough, despite not really understanding what he did, and that would finally end their family’s financial difficulties. If George was straightened out by then he could take over marketing the magical phones. Percy’s share in the company would make him rich.

By the time dessert was served Ron was going on about Draco again, and how he would get to watch him get executed. Percy didn’t think Ron was wrong - Malfoy was guilty, and as one of his victims’ in their 6th year, when he almost died from poison meant for Dumbledore, and one of Harry’s and Hermione’s oldest friends, he certainly would get his wish. Unless he managed to make Harry or Hermione mad.

Percy couldn’t understand how Ron had managed to mess up his relationship with Harry and Hermione. Sure, Hermione picking Harry over him had hurt him, but anyone in their right state of mind would have realized Ron wouldn’t have been happy with her. Ron wanted a woman to cook for him, bear him children, and root for the Chudley Cannons. Hermione would have turned him into a doormat, or driven him crazy in short order, Percy thought, but at least they would have had spectacular make-up sex until they finally separated for good. Or killed each other.

Still, with Harry being Chief Warlock, and Hermione Minister for Magic, Ron should have wormed his way back into their good graces already. Although, given how ruthless both had turned out to be - Percy was sure even Arthur would have been killed had he gone along with the Marriage Law, or had been at the wrong place during the riots - maybe Ron was getting smarter, and not jumping into mortal danger as headlessly as he did in the past. Not that his stupidity was unheard of in the family.

If he had not stopped Molly’s attempt to use the Marriage Law as a reason to have Hermione marry Ron and Harry marry Ginny… Sure, she had probably, maybe, considered that this was the best solution for everyone - get married and the law doesn’t matter to them - but he was rather convinced that Hermione would have not seen it that way, but as an attempt to control her - and quite correctly too. Fleur could tell tales of ‘mum-in-law’ Molly that would drive any girlfriend off, as Charlie had found out once already.

He had not mentioned ‘getting killed’ as a possible consequence when he had talked to Molly, but after the bloody Revolution, even Molly had realized just what could have happened. Which was why she was now so… restrained… around him. And avoided Hermione and Harry. George though… he hadn’t realized just what love potions meant to Hermione until Percy had pointed it out to him. That had been one powerful vanishing spell.

Molly still thought Harry and Hermione were much too young to do anything like leading a government or deciding anything about their own lives, but at least she did not mention it to everyone anymore. Ginny… Ginny was preparing to try out for the Harpies again. With a number of teams having had sudden openings after the tribunals started, she had a good chance to get in too, especially if people thought she and Harry had separated amicably. Little sister really should have known better than to try to pressure Harry into marrying her to avoid the Marriage Law, and to make him distance himself from Hermione at the same time to avoid the backlash from her activities, but Ginny had been quite insecure about Harry and his feelings for Hermione for a long time. Even if nothing had happened in the Forest of Dean - and Percy didn’t think that was true, not when two young people were all alone, in a war, and had to risk their life each day - Harry and Hermione were so close, anyone else in a relationship with either of them would feel insecure at least at times.

Dessert had come and gone - mostly into Ron’s stomach - and Percy had barely tasted it. He had been making idle conversation while letting his thoughts roam, an unfortunate habit he had acquired due to all those pointless meetings at work run by people other than himself. He needed to work on getting rid of that - keeping the Weasleys safe could need his full attention at any moment, after all.

When he stepped out, late at night, to apparate to his flat, he looked up at the stars. That was one thing the muggle world was missing, with all their lights and numbers: A clear, beautiful night sky. He felt content with his life, more content than ever before.

Some might say the Sorting Hat should have put him in Slytherin, Percy knew that, but doing what was needed to save his family, no matter how others thought of it, sometimes no matter how his family thought of it, took a certain kind of courage too. And if doing what was best for his family was best for himself too… well, he certainly would not complain.

*****


	6. Meeting at the Veil

**Chapter 6: Meeting at the Veil**

Ron checked himself in the mirror. His new suit fit him, or so he thought, even that strange noose around his neck they called a ‘tie’. Muggles were weird. What was wrong with robes? Granted one couldn’t move as well in them as one could in muggle clothes, but wizards apparated or flew, they didn’t run! Robes didn’t try to strangle you, unless they were cursed, of course. He was very tempted to loosen the noose, but Percy and Mum had been clear on that: He was to look and act his best when meeting ‘his best friends’. That was why Percy had bought the suit for him. If it had been George he had thought it would have been a prank - and he would have been delighted to see his older brother finally start pranking him again. Ok, mostly happy. There were more deserving targets for pranking, in Ron’s opinion. But since it had been Percy this was no joke. Sighing, he went downstairs, where his Mum was waiting. Hopefully she’d not try to wipe dirt from his nose again!

Percy was there too, wearing a suit as well, and a noose. Ron nodded at him, smiling even - every Weasley knew it had been Percy who had gotten Dad to quit his job, and even if Ron was sure… well, pretty sure… mostly… that Dad wouldn’t have been in real danger… he buried the thought, and spread his arms for Molly’s inspection, which she turned into one of her hugs. Ow. Mum had to be worried, she didn’t hug that forcefully, usually. He glanced at the family clock - all clear. Dad was in his shed, tinkering with fellytones that one could carry around. Magic fellytones though - unlike muggle ones, those would be able to work even without a cord! Another proof that magic was better - muggles were limited by the length of their cords when they wanted to carry their fellytone around, but wizards could carry theirs around wherever they wanted! It would be a big hit, even if he didn’t really understand how they would look muggle without the cord. Maybe there was an illusionary cord? Or a notice-me-not spell on the missing cord? Was it possible to put a spell on something that was missing? Hermione would know, he thought. And buried that thought very quickly. He didn’t want to think about her.

Oh, Mum had finished. And asked something. He smiled back, and nodded. Nodding to what she said made her happy. Or less unhappy. And that was a good thing. These days Molly wasn’t happy that often. Things just were not like they should be, or had been. Same thing, in Ron’s opinion. He didn’t like changes. Too much was changing. Next thing, they might even want to change Quidditch! Over his dead body!

Percy said his farewell to Mum, and the two stepped outside to apparate to the Ministry. Percy was talking about how to behave, but Ron was only half-listening. There was nothing to think about - he was simply going to watch his worst enemy getting his just desserts. Ron didn’t understand why Percy and Molly made such a fuss about it. It would be a great day to see the slimy Slytherin getting pushed into the Veil. Nothing could ruin that, not even Harry and Hermione being there. He hoped.

*****

They had arrived at the Ministry’s apparition point, and had been searched and checked for polyjuice and spells. Ron didn’t understand why everyone was still so mental about it. You-Know-Who was dead, and his Death Eaters were dead too, now. Or would be shortly - he thought Draco was one of the last, or the last of the marked Death Eaters. He had always known the git had not changed his views, and he was vindicated at last! Anyway, the war was over, they had won, they could relax now, not act as if an army of slimy Slytherins was ready to storm the Ministry. They couldn’t attack anyway, not without violating their vows. They’d probably die, or lose their magic if they did that. And who would risk that? To lose his magic… to live like a muggle… Ron would rather die. They had no butterbeer, they probably had only water to drink, and without magic, they couldn’t cook as well as Mum. Losing his magic was unthinkable.

They passed the atrium, and the new fountain there. Hermione had been behind that, he was sure - it showed just about all magical races, and all on the same height. All but giants - not enough room for those. He chuckled, imaging for an instant Hermione trying to expand the atrium so she could fit a giant made of stone in… wait, why didn’t they simply expand the room? Puzzled, Ron almost missed Percy greeting Katie Bell. Hello! Last he had seen her had been at the battle of Hogwarts, and she hadn’t looked that good there, hadn’t she? He had had eyes mostly for Hermione, and of course there had been the battle, but how could he have missed… Oh, she was here to watch Draco die as well! Of course, she too had been almost killed by the snake in his 6th year. She missed out on most of the Quidditch season too! Ron thought that alone would be worth the Veil. Though it meant they had something in common!

“Hey, Katie! Looking forward to see the snake die? I hope he screams and cries and wets himself!”

“Ah… I just want to know it’s over, getting closure, you know?” She gave him a weak smile.

Ron was puzzled again. Seeing one’s would-be murderer die was great! The girl was mental, probably an after-effect of the cursed necklace. Ginny, he knew, had taken great satisfaction in seeing Lucius Malfoy die. If only they had a pensieve she could have shared the memory, but even so she had told him so much last night, when they had talked about the upcoming execution of the last Malfoy, he could imagine it perfectly.

“So, have you been playing Quidditch again? With most of the snakes dead there are lots of openings in the teams!” That should cheer her up, Ron was sure. Dead snakes and Quidditch - almost a perfect combination.

“No. I am looking into taking muggle courses, to get a better resume.”

Studying after school? Mental indeed. She had been at the Battle of Hogwarts, she was a hero. Not as big a hero as himself, or … the others… but still. Why study? And with so many Aurors dead - still a touchy subject at home, Mum said they had been killed for doing their job and following orders - there should be lots of openings there too, for a Gryffindor! Or she could marry a rich wizard, with her looks. Maybe a rich, understanding wizard, with her issues.

Oh, they had arrived at the Death Chamber. For a moment Ron remembered the battle at the Ministry, where Sirius had died. And most of his friends had almost died. And where he himself had … he didn’t want to think about that particular part of the battle, shivering at the memory of those brains. Focus, Ron, he told himself, you’re here to see Draco die!

He looked around. Percy had gone to work, two Aurors - or whatever they were called now - were there at the Veil, two more at the door. Katie was here, though she was leaning against the wall. Stupid, she’d not get a good look at Draco’s face from there. Loony was here too, was she playing at reporter again? He had heard the Quibbler had been restarted, but who would want to read that weird newspaper when the Daily Prophet was now finally printing the truth? Or was she here because she had been imprisoned at the Malfoy Manor once? Ron waved at her and mumbled a greeting. He didn’t want to talk much, or she’d weird him out. Then two more people entered, and Ron was now wishing he was talking to Loony.

Harry and Hermione. He had known they’d be there, but he had managed not to think about it. Calm down, Ron, he told himself, or tried to, they are your best friends, your mates. You beat You-know-who together!

“Ah.. Hi Harry. Hi Herm...ione.”

Merlin, it still hurt to see them together, though he wasn’t really sure anymore if it hurt to see Hermione with anyone else, or with Harry, or to see them, without him. But even while it hurt he was glad he wasn’t… that close to them, not anymore. Hermione was scary, and she had Harry completely under her thumb. If she was willing to have wizards executed who were not snakes, just for following orders, what would she do to him if he broke one of her rules? And he would have, they were mental! A part of him pined for his old fantasy - him and Hermione, a happy family, with four or five children, not too many, he had learned from his parents, seven were too much. But he had realized that Hermione would never be the wife he needed. Late, almost too late - fortunately, he had not yet bought a ring for her - but he had finally realized that she was simply too different for him to be happy with her. She was simply too… muggle.

There, he thought it. He wouldn’t say it - that was a bad thing to say, these days. Even he understood that. But it was true. That was her main fault. Contrary to what many believed he had never expected her to become a housewife. He had noticed how much she resented the time at Grimmauld Place, when Molly made them clean the house. And he remembered her cooking in the tent, with a shudder. No, he would have been fine with a working wife, and had expected - even counted on, if he was honest - that she’d earn more money than himself. The Cannons would not be paying well, after all. But he had expected her to, what was the word... ah, well, to fit into his world. The magical world. Be a brilliant spell designer, a Ministry employee, a teacher, the Headmistress or librarian of Hogwarts. But above all, a proper witch. Someone one could be proud of, someone he could raise little witches and wizards with.

Not someone who proudly wore her muggle clothes, spoke like a muggle, thought like a muggle, and always tried to make his world more muggle. A few muggle things were nice. Something to talk about with guests. Something to laugh at. Best stored in a shed, outside the house. But he didn’t want to, couldn’t live in a muggle house, with a muggle wife.

Harry could. He probably could even be the muggle wife, they way he cooked and cleaned. Ron almost snorted at the thought. Harry was Chief Warlock now - a fate worse than death, Ron thought. No more Quidditch for the best seeker England had seen in a century! All that paperwork, all that reading and writing, and dealing with old people… he probably had no fun at all anymore, poor guy. Well, almost no fun - Ron’s eye briefly, very briefly wandered down Hermione’s skirt. Far too short, it almost didn’t reach her calves! Muggle clothes, another thing he wouldn’t have been able to stomach - his wife showing her legs and body like that to others! No, he was very glad that Harry and Hermione were together, and hadn’t dragged him or Ginny into their muggle world. Or so he told himself.

And yet they were his two best friends. They had been through hell together, and came back. they had seen each other at their worst, and best. Each had risked their life for the others, and each had been saved in turn. Living in different worlds, living different lives didn’t change that. Couldn’t change that. They still had that bond forged over years of danger and friendship, Ron realized, even if it had been stretched a bit thin lately, what with the … changes at the Ministry. And he realized he was fine with that. Too muggle, or not, he was fine with it.

With a smile - an honest smile - he stepped forward, ignoring Harry’s outstretched hand, and hugged his best friend, hard. Not as hard as his mum though. He stepped back, shook Harry’s shoulders while looking him into the eyes.

“Mate!”

Then he turned to Hermione, ignoring her widening eyes and how she was just starting to raise her arms, and hugged her as well.

“Hermione! Good to see you two! How have you been doing?”

He missed how the man behind them quickly holstered his wand, missed how just about everyone else in the room but Luna and Katie was gaping at him - it was, after all, an execution they were attending, not a class reunion! - but he wasn’t missing his two best friends, not anymore.

*****

Hermione Granger had dreaded this moment, but felt compelled to attend. She and Harry had been responsible for the execution, after all, and while not attending would have been the perfect final insult, showing Draco was truly beneath their notice, it wouldn’t have been right. And Hermione wanted to make sure the foul little murderer was executed. One Death Eater rat escaping justice in their third year was enough, there wouldn’t be a Death Eater ferret following that example, thank you very much!

But once they had known Ron would attend as well, they had been worried. Relations to the Weasleys had been strained even before the Revolution. Ever since she and Ron as well as Harry and Ginny had broken up and she and Harry had become a couple. The actual order of those three events might be in dispute too. Hermione had been worried about how Ron was taking it. Long-term, that was - she had been sure, and had turned out, as usual, if she said so herself, to be correct, that his first reaction would be loud, rude, and emotional. But would he forgive them (he would never forget, anyone knew that), or would their friendship be ruined? Not that he had much to stand on, they had forgiven him so much, after all. She and Harry had avoided him and the Weasleys, mostly, after that, and then the preparations for the Revolution had taken so much time, not to mention the secrecy needed… Percy had recently assured them everything was fine, that there was no danger of either Ron or Ginny making a stupid mistake, that they were over it, but Hermione had been sceptical.

She wasn’t worried about Ginny. The girl was good with her wand, but she was better. And she had bodyguards now. If the little girl tried something… Harry was hers. But Ron, Ron was a close friend, not just an ex or the sister of her best friend. That was why she had dreaded getting involved - well, in that way - with Harry. So much history, so much friendship at stake. And yet she had gotten involved with him in that way.

Hermione was many things - brilliant, scary, ruthless, very stubborn, and sometimes petty, and a few other not so good things she didn’t want to go into right now - but one thing she was not, and that was dishonest. She hadn’t been able to lie to herself for long, back then, and when Harry had come to complain about Ginny starting to act like Molly, trying to decide his life for him, she hadn’t pointed out that Ginny would likely go along with his plans, if he had actual plans for his life. She hadn’t pointed out that arranging a meeting with Puddlemere United’s coach wasn’t the same as forcing him to go, or sign him up as a player, and that it probably was more an attempt by Ginny to get a meeting herself. She hadn’t told him of her problems with Ron, her fear of turning into a nag, or worse, a Molly, who would be running his life for him.

No, she had sat Harry down, and poured out her heart to him. Told him how she had felt about him since their first year, how she had never told him, first because she hadn’t realized her feelings, then because she was sure he deserved better, then because she was no home wrecker, when he was with others - and that date with Chang was ruined by coincidence, thank you very much. If the b..witch couldn’t handle her friend having a best female friend, then she was not right for him anyway. Not that she went into that many details then. Or since. And how she had been afraid she’d ruin their friendship. And had been torn between him and Ron. Back then, and that she didn’t tell him either, Ron had been simply more attractive from a purely physical point of view - tall, strong, handsome, hard at all the right places, while Harry had been scrawny, and, well, short. Even a girl like her had eyes. And while Ron had his faults, Harry too was no saint. Moody, even though with the prophecy, and the Horcrux in his scar, that was excused. Often easily swayed, yet sometimes too stubborn for his own good. But Harry had changed a lot, he had been growing and maturing ever since he started to live without his death hanging over his head and without a shard of Voldemort’s foul soul in his head.

She had told him of picking Ron since Harry had been with Ginny and had given Ron that ‘Sister’ speech. He had listened, had had to listen since she had been going a mile a minute, not giving him any chance to say anything until she was done. She hadn’t finished as she had planned, with a strong ‘And since the end of the war, since we have had time to life, to settle down some, I have realized I love you. I want you!’ followed by grabbing him and kissing him until he realized she was the one for her.

No, she had finished with a nervous ‘And so, I realized I was and am in love with you.’, biting her lower lip while she tried to meet his eyes. Nervous, afraid he would reject her, that she had not only ruined her relationship with Ron but also her friendship with Harry with her actions. But he had smiled, and he kissed her, and all had been well. At least Ginny had broken him of that shyness that probably kept him from making a first move during their time in the tent. Or so he explained, when it was his time to talk, and her time listen. And they kissed again, and again.

Things had been going well ever since that day, the break-up with the Weasleys, and the marriage law notwithstanding. But Hermione missed Ron too. Her friend Ron, not the boyfriend who could not do a thing right and had no clues about the real world, and no tact either. And she knew Harry missed Ron too. He was loud-mouthed, annoying whenever Quidditch came up - which came up all the time near him, not that Harry was that much better about that stupid sport. If only Harry would listen to her proposals about reforming Quidditch! - and only displayed his manners or skill with a wand when absolutely forced to, but he was their annoying best friend. Or had been, she wasn’t sure.

When they met in the Execution Chamber - the proper new name for it, thank you very much! - only her self-discipline had kept her from flinching. The way he flinched, the way he stumbled over her name - had he tried to shorten it again? - it looked like he was afraid of them. Ron afraid of them, truly afraid, not nervous about her reaction to him not doing his homework in time, that was a blow. Ron, the man who faced Death Eaters and trolls as a child, and was more concerned about his next meal than the next dangerous situation, afraid of his two best friends? For an instant, Hermione felt all her doubts about her chosen course of action return. Not that she’d change anything, she truly felt it was the only choice she had had, but was it truly so …

Her thoughts were interrupted by Ron smiling - honestly smiling, he couldn’t fool her - and grabbing Harry in a hug that showed he was the son of Molly Weasley. Hermione smiled, honestly smiled then. Things were… wait, what was he do-oof! Hermione had to correct herself. Molly’s wasn’t quite as strong as Ron, or as tall. He was almost crushing her against his chest, she could almost hear her ribs cracking… and yet, she was happy. Their friend was back.

Of course she was quite aware what kind of spectacle they were presenting to the rest of the room. And the part of her that wasn’t enjoying the moment was already making plans how best to spin that. It would send a nice sign to the remaining purebloods that as long as they were not violating the law, they were in no danger. Luna would want an interview, or at least a comment, anyway, in her professional capacity, and would probably explain how she had expected all this to happen when they had her over in their flat next.

Hermione also knew they’d have arguments, nasty ones probably. Ron was too much a pureblood wizard to understand what drove her and Harry. But that would be dealt with when it happened. Right now Hermione was simply happy to have her friend back.

*****


	7. Draco's Last Hour

**Chapter 7: Draco’s Last Hour**

I am a pureblood. A noble. A Malfoy.

I am a pureblood. A noble. A Malfoy.

I am a pureblood. A noble. A Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy repeated those words over and over again. They had almost become a mantra for him - not that he’d knew what that meant. But the views those words represented had been taught to him since his earliest childhood, and he clung to them to control himself, to hold himself together in the face of his imminent death. He was sitting in a cell in the Ministry, on a small cot, facing dull, grey walls. His wand had been taken, snapped before his eyes at his ‘trial’. Those traitors and mudbloods had even perverted justice, a pureblood was supposed to be judged by his peers, the Wizengamot, not some mudblood. He was sure the Wizengamot wouldn’t have judged him to have been at fault, would have forbidden Veritaserum from being used, would have… he shuddered, feeling his eyes grow moist with tears of frustration, hatred, and… no, no fear. He took deep breaths, forcing himself to be calm.

A Malfoy doesn’t show weakness.

A Malfoy is always in control.

A Malfoy is better.

He wanted to believe that. He had believed that his whole life. Even after the war. Even after seeing his father at his worst. Even after the defeat. No, the setback. Or so they had thought, after they had survived the Battle of Hogwarts and had escaped prison, once again. They even had laughed about it, laughed at the wizards from the Order of the Phoenix who considered them redeemed just because they had rendered them some aid. His father had said it would be like 1981 - they’d withdraw a bit from public, avoided old friends who had not been as smart in keeping their options open, showed some fake remorse, and would start to dominate Wizarding Britain again once things had settled.

Draco still didn’t understand what exactly had gone wrong, but he knew it was the mudblood’s fault. It always was the mudblood’s fault, always had been, right from the start of his Hogwarts years. Oh, he knew his father blamed Potter, but Potter was not the real problem.

Potter had been a thorn in Draco’s side since they first met on the train to Hogwarts. One could even say Potter had been his rival. Quidditch, dueling, power plays - the two had clashed wherever they met. As much as it galled to admit it, Potter had beaten him often - several times - too, but, Draco knew, just due to his infamous luck.

But Potter had beaten the Dark Lord. There was no shame in suffering a defeat - a setback - at the hands of someone who was equal to the greatest Dark Lord Britain had seen in centuries! And Potter was a halfblood, from an old family. Almost acceptable. Obviously the old blood had won out despite the corruption from his mudblood mother. And with his atrocious manners and clothes, almost as bad as the Weasleys’, he would have been no real threat to Draco, despite his luck. Potter had even acted like an ignorant mudblood, just to defy Draco, despite the loss of face that caused among the proper people. The proof was that even his own house had turned against him on several occasions - something he, Draco, would have never allowed.

No, the real problem had been and was the mudblood. Granger. That mudblood had plagued his school years, turned what should have been his best years into a nightmare. Not only didn’t she know her place and acted as if she was worthy of learning magic despite being a dirty mudblood, but she had the audacity to actually excel at it! That cursed mudblood had been doing better in school than most proper purebloods! She was the living proof of what was wrong with the Magical World, the best example of the threat the mudbloods presented, but even worse, she seemed to disprove - contradict - the value of blood. How could a mudblood, the spawn of muggles, be better at magic than a proper pureblood?

Draco had almost despaired over it. She had to have been cheating, he had been sure. But how could she have fooled all the teachers, and even Snape? Although Snape had turned out to have been a traitor all along, so maybe… no. Draco had eliminated cheating as the reason for the mudblood’s success quite quickly, not even far into his third year. Then he had thought that the mudblood couldn’t be an actual mudblood, but was a pureblood in disguise. Maybe she was the child of purebloods who had been killed in the war, placed with muggles by Dumbledore so she’d not know of her heritage, and would be friendly towards muggles as a result. If he could prove it, prove she was actually a pureblood, then the world would see that he was correct, that blood would tell. And maybe she’d see it too, and …

Draco ground his teeth and forced his thoughts away from that particular place. He still hadn’t found out what kind of ritual the mudblood had used to change from a bucktoothed freak to someone able to seduce Krum, the finest student of Durmstrang, a school free of mudbloods. That had ruined the Yule Ball for him, seeing the mudblood like that. And only Skeeter had listened to him, and even she had only speculated about love potions, not the darker rituals he had suspected. As if a mudblood siren as smart as Granger would use easily detectable potions on an international Quidditch star - and Draco knew Durmstrang’s headmaster had Krum checked every day for a week after the ball.

Draco knew he could have enjoyed his years in Hogwarts if it had just been Potter. Ignorant, stupid Potter. Easily dealt with, but for his luck. But Potter and the mudblood? Protected by Dumbledore and all the teachers? Draco was proud he had managed to keep his own house pure, under those conditions, with everyone, even Snape, who he thought was supporting him, working against him!

Draco remembered that moment on the astronomy tower, facing Dumbledore. He had been ready to kill the old man, when he suddenly realized how suspicious the whole scene was. He, the scion of the Malfoys, but still a student, killing the Wizard who had beaten Grindelwald? He beating the wizard even the Dark Lord feared? It had to be a trap! So he had hesitated, and then Snape had killed Dumbledore. At the time he had thought that Snape had avoided whatever trap Dumbledore had set, Slytherin cunning beating Gryffindor stupidity as usual. Now… he didn’t know anymore what happened there, not with Snape having been revealed as a traitor.

Draco shook his head. He didn’t know how much longer he’d have, how much longer he’d be alive. They had said at 10, but without a watch he could not tell the time. Maybe it was already past that? Maybe the purebloods had finally realized the danger they were in, had banded together and stormed the Ministry, killing the mudbloods and blood traitors, freeing the prisoners, saving him from…

He gripped his knees so hard his nails almost dug through his ugly prisoner robe, to keep them from shaking.

A Malfoy doesn’t show weakness.

A Malfoy is always in control.

A Malfoy is better.

He’d not give them the satisfaction to see him tremble. He had his pride. He had lost everything else - his wand, his money, his power, his family, but he still had his pride and he’d have it when he faced death. His father had showed the same pride, he knew, when he had faced his death. He hadn’t been there - he had been sure the mudblood and Potter would have thrown him into the Veil right afterwards, since they wanted to kill all purebloods and he was the most prominent one - but he had read the article, and if the paper said his father had cursed his enemies, but not shown fear, then he was sure his father had actually acted with the utmost dignity, or they’d have printed worse lies.

Draco wiped his brows. He was sweating. They couldn’t even keep the cells cool, the mudblood barbarians. The spells must be failing already, magic itself rebelling against the corrupt new masters… He shook his head again. No, he had to keep his calm. They wanted to break him, to humiliate him, to harm his cause. He had to keep calm, and foil their plans.

At least his mother had been spared the indignity of being murdered; she had taken her own life before the scum had broken into their manor. He was proud of her, she had died a pureblood.

Draco once again had to force his thoughts away. If he thought of his mother, he’d… he wiped his eyes, and sobbed. He took a while to regain his composure, and he did it by focusing on his killers. Potter and the mudblood. They’d be there to gloat. To sneer at him, and watch him die. He’d show them!

If only his plan had worked… he had it all planned out. The wedding vows, the magical compulsions, and the torture. Oh, yes, the torture. The mudblood would have been broken when he was done with her, no longer showing up purebloods, and best of all, would not have been able to pollute magic by spawning. And Potter’s face, when he saw her with him… all the rage, yet unable to do anything to him since it was all legal. Draco smiled at the fantasy.

Then he ground his teeth. All that wrecked and why? How? Because the mudbloods suddenly showed their true colors and murdered wizards and witches like rabid animals. Wizards who were still weak from a war caused by the mudbloods. He still couldn’t understand why this heinous crime hadn’t caused an outrage around the globe, why purebloods were not storming Britain to deal with those beasts. Didn’t they see that once the last pureblood in Britain was dead they would be next?

It was all the mudblood’s fault. If she had gone quietly, followed the law, then no one would have made a fuss. But no, she had to resist, and cause all of the other mudbloods - the lesser mudbloods, as he thought of them - to go crazy. Yes, it was all her fault. And once again, as with Potter, it was all pure luck, no cunning, no planning. Just luck. Wait… Merlin, he finally knew their secret!

The mudblood and Potter had been drinking Felix Felicis all the time! That explained their insane luck, that explained how they could have beaten him, his father, and the Dark Lord! That explained why his plans didn’t work as they should, why he failed when he should have succeeded! How they were made Minister and Chief Warlock. Merlin, it was so simple!

Draco was excited. Wait… Felix Felicis was toxic when taken in large amounts. People tended to be overconfident and showed extreme recklessness… that explained Gryffindors! They must be brewing it in secret in their house. It explained everything, the whole war, the whole school!

Now that he knew this, he could…

His thoughts were interrupted by the door opening.

“Time’s up, Malfoy.”

He gasped, and stared at the four men - mudbloods - entering. They were not even wearing robes, but muggle clothes, he thought while he felt his stomach turn to ice and his heart miss a beat. Merlin, no!

“Wait, you cannot do this, I know what they did!”

His protests were ignored, and his hands were bound on his back as if he was a common criminal. He protested against that too, shaking with anger - anger, not fear - but it only got him roughly shoved out of the cell, causing him to stumble and fall on the floor. They laughed, the beasts were showing their true nature, cruelly treating one of their betters! He managed to focus enough to get up. One almost kicked his legs out from under him, but the leader of the murderers held him back.

“No harming the prisoners. Especially not now.”

Draco didn’t really notice much of the following walk, he barely heard the ‘Dead wizard walking’ announcement by one of his tormentors. His thoughts raced, hope of a rescue, or a pardon - wasn’t Potter the Chief Warlock, and the student of Dumbledore, who always gave second chances? He had saved Potter’s life, he deserved it - warring with rage at the injustice of it, both straining the thin shred of control he still had over himself.

I am a pureblood. A noble. A Malfoy.

I am a pureblood. A noble. A Malfoy.

I am a pureblood. A noble. A Malfoy.

He repeated the same sentence. He was the last Malfoy. No, that way lay rage and madness.

I am a pureblood. A noble. A Malfoy.

I am a pureblood. A noble. A Malfoy.

I am a pureblood. A noble. A Malfoy.

When the small group reached the Death Chamber Draco raised his head, wanting to look at his murderers, the mudblood and Potter. He would sneer at them, as his father had, to show them how much lower they were. And he’d expose their secret, their potion addiction. Taunt them with his knowledge. Their own efforts to cover up would undo them. Even in death he’d ruin them! He’d beat them! He ignored Loony and Bell. They did not matter, only the mudblood and Potter mattered.

There they were, standing together, much too closely to be proper. Were they holding hands? Merlin, they were! He knew the mudblood had been shagging Potter, he knew it in their first year even! Mudbloods were like that! Potter’s mother had done the same to his father, got her claws into him in their first year, his mother had told him. He sneered at them, then he saw red. Red hair. Weasley! That blood traitor was here too. And he was smirking at him! The blood traitor from the poorest family in Britain, the worst wizard in school, the weakest link in the Gryffindor Trio, a wizard so far beneath him, he was not even worth licking his boots, was smirking at him? Why was he here, didn’t they get rid of him?

Draco could stomach Potter and the mudblood being there - especially now that he knew the secret of their success - but Ronald Weasley? Draco’s self control, already hanging by a thread, shattered, and rage and hatred overcame him.

“Filthy blood traitor! Mudblood whore! Scarheaded freak! You will all die, you will...”

Draco had planned to expose them then, but found himself silenced. They claimed it was so the executioner could read his sentence out loud without getting interrupted, but Draco knew better. They would not let him speak out of fear! He had failed! He stared at them, trembling with rage and fear, and they stared back at him with… was that pity in the mudblood’s eyes? Potter too? They dared to pity him?

Draco began to struggle, cursing them in silence, spit flying from his mouth while he stared at them with madness in his eyes. Two men were holding him by his bound arms, ignoring the desperate but weak kicks he dealt out while his death sentence was once again read out to him. He didn’t even notice when the Silence Charm was ended, he just continued to rant.

“... and I’ll piss on your grave and kill every single one of your family and friends, you mudblood traitor, you blight on our world, you will all ...” He barely noticed how Granger ordered his last words to be recorded exactly as he said them, he only had eyes for the looming arc in front of him.

As Draco was pushed forward, towards the Veil, his struggles grew even more frantic, but remained ineffectual. When he saw the arc loom over him, when he heard the whispering voice, felt the soft breeze out of nowhere on his face, Draco started to cry. He wanted to scream, wanted to curse, wanted to beg. He did not want to die, did not want to d...

*****

The Quibbler special edition with the picture (taken from a pensieve) of a crying Malfoy being thrown into the veil, and the quote ‘as if he was a sack of shite - well, he was’ from Ron Weasley sold out in record time. Hermione wanted to propose a law that forbid printing pictures of executions, but Harry managed to persuade her that Wizarding Britain was not yet ready for that. Luna’s argument that through the sale of such pictures the criminals would at least do something productive for once in their lives, even indirectly, was less well received, if not less honestly stated.

Molly’s reaction to her youngest son’s choice of words to be printed for all of Wizarding Britain was said to be heard perfectly clear even at the Lovegood’s home.

*****


	8. Wrackspurts

**Chapter 8: Wrackspurts**

Luna Lovegood, special reporter and chief editor of the Quibbler, was happy. Those who did not know her well - which were just about everyone in Wizarding Britain - wouldn’t have guessed, since she smiled like she usually did, a bit vacantly, with her eyes focusing on something else than everyone else was focusing, but she felt like dancing with joy. She wouldn’t, though. If she did, people would stare at her again, and while she was used to that, her few friends would be embarrassed for her, and that she wanted to avoid. She had not many friends, and didn’t want to risk any them. Rationally she knew that they wouldn’t stop being her friends just because she acted oddly, or was believed to act oddly, but she couldn’t help being afraid of being alone again. Terribly afraid.

So, she smiled at Harry and Hermione in the Death Chamber - they called it the Execution Chamber, but that was silly, one could not change the name of a place of death without the proper ritual, and from what she could see, there had been no proper ritual - and told them about the latest issue of the Quibbler. They had subscriptions, of course, and knew the issue already, but talking about something everyone knew already was what one did when meeting like this, Luna had learned that. People did it with the weather all the time. She felt good seeing the two of them together. They did belong together, and it had taken a truly astonishing amount of Wrackspurts to keep them apart all those years. Luna wasn’t sure, but she suspected someone had been feeding those Wrackspurts all those years.

In her school years she had suffered from Nargles. Her stuff had gone missing, she had been locked out of the dorms, had been pranked and made fun of. But that had just been the work of Nargles influencing weak-minded people. Nargles were not cruel. They were like the Fae, different from witches and wizards. So different they might seem cruel, even though they did not intend to be. They were simply curious, and wanted to find out how far they could go. To be angry at them would have been like being angry at the clouds for raining, or the sun for burning one’s skin - though she liked to dance in the rain, and lying in the sun.

That was before the war, and before she had been the prisoner of the Malfoys. There had been no Nargles at the Malfoys. There had been other… things. She didn’t know what they were, her father had never mentioned them and she had not dared to ask after she had encountered them, she did not want to remind him even more of what she had gone through, and what he had almost done to her friends, for her, but they were as different from Nargles as a kitten was from a Nundu. Where Nargles were like children, acting without knowing what they did, those beings knew what they did, and reveled in it. They smelled of cruelty, and bloodlust, and were clustered around everyone at the Malfoys, sometimes in swarms so thick Luna hadn’t been able to see the faces of the people in the middle. Like Bellatrix. She hadn’t really seen the woman, just the things around her, but she’d never forget her voice and laugh. 

The Others - she was still not sure what they were, she didn’t want to invent a name since they had to have a name already, so she called them ‘Others’ - were probably breeding there, using the Malfoys and their guests. Nargles did the same, if one child was affected by them, their friends were more prone to attract Nargles themselves. Luna thought briefly of the half of an article for the Quibbler she had written in her head about the mating habits of the Others before she shook her head to clear it. She would never print that article, it was too personal. It took her back to that time, in the dungeons, in the manor of the Malfoys, when she had learned just how cruel people could be. The Malfoys and their guests had taught her.

And today the last of them would leave this world, and take all the Others surrounding him with him. That was another thing the war had taught her - the Others died with their hosts. Usually at least. Sometimes a few managed to survive, and attached themselves to the killer of their host, but she had learned that she could prevent that, sometimes with a smile, sometimes - strangely - with her pen. Wonderful things, pens. Much easier to handle, use, and transport than quills. And no bird had to lose their feathers to make a pen either! Luna’s smile grew wider, and one of the guards glanced at her nervously. She smiled back at him, gently now. The Wrackspurts around his head suddenly vanished. Before the war she had needed special lenses to spot them, but after the dungeons she could see all the creatures clearly now. Ollivander had told her that her eyes had been opened by her experiences - silly, she had always had her eyes open, when she wasn’t sleeping.

Yes, Luna knew that smiles and gentleness would be able to drive the Others away as well, but for some people, there were not enough smiles in the world, not even if one used muggle smiles - though muggle smiles didn’t work on those people anyway. One could only kill those people to get rid of the Others.

Luna had watched almost every execution of the friends of the Malfoys and the Death Eaters, just to make sure the Others vanished with them through the Veil. They were weird creatures. One would assume that they would try to escape, seeing the Veil, but they often grew even stronger right before the end. She had only seen one person whose Others had started to disappear before the Veil, that person had begged for forgiveness. Maybe forgiveness hurt the Others too? She would have to investigate that, but she didn’t know how. There were not many Death Eaters left, almost all had gone through the Veil. Only one she knew of was left, and he’d die today. Draco Malfoy. Most of the other Death Eaters she had seen die were not surrounded by so many Others.

Luna nibbled on her pen, pondering this. She absentmindedly greeted Ronald when he entered, head full of Wrackspurts. She knew how to deal with those, but Ronald was so Wrackspurt-prone, none of the remedies she had tried when they were kids had worked. She cocked her head sideways, studying Ronald and his Wrackspurts, when suddenly, they faded and he walked towards Harry and Hermione, with a smile on his face. Luna smiled too. Friends shouldn’t be kept apart by Wrackspurts. The world was a better place when friends stuck together. She could feel the warmth from Harry and Hermione grow in strength, fueled by Ronald’s friendship, and took a deep breath. Friendship, she could almost smell it. Almost. One day she’d be able to, she knew. If only Neville and Ginny were here as well. Luna missed them. She was sure the Wrackspurts were still around them.

Then she wrinkled her nose, and shivered - the Others were coming, dragged along by Draco, who himself was dragged by the guards. Some of the Others were trying to attach themselves to the guards, she knew that. Then she saw Draco, or rather, the cloud of Others and Wrackspurts around him. Wow! Those dwarfed even Ronald’s. Someone must have dunked Draco’s head in Wrackspurt-attracting lotion, like in school - that was why his hair was so shiny all the time. Probably Ronald - the Wrackspurts doubled in number when Draco saw him, and Ronald could have gotten a lotion from his brothers. From his brother.

Luna leaned forward, pen scribbling over her notepad - another wonderful thing muggles had invented - noting down the details without actually realizing it, while Draco, screaming incoherently about his Wrackspurts, was pushed through the Veil, taking all his Others with him. Sadly, Draco had not wet himself. She had been so sure he’d do that. At least he had cried. 

It was done. Another swarm of the Others gone. She closed her eyes, smiling with relief. A quick check showed a few others floating around, so she took care to smile extra-strongly at the guards, and make sure they were not allowing the others to nest. It would be a shame if Harry and Hermione had to execute one of the guards later, to get rid of more Others.

She went over to Harry and Hermione, asking for a quote for the Quibbler. Harry said something about justice being done, not revenge. Very chief warlocky, but not really newsworthy, as her father would have said. Hermione said something too long to be quoted in a wizarding paper, and wanted to make sure Luna would use the fake name of the room. Ronald though had a delightful quote that would fit perfectly in her article.

Her father had taught her that one had to be honest and truthful when writing an article, and polite, but that one had not to be nice unless one wanted to. Luna didn’t think she had to be nice to Draco.

*****

Harry Potter let out his breath when Draco had vanished through the Veil. A chapter of his life - a bad chapter, one of the worst - was finished. A small part of him, the part that had been born in a cupboard and raised by gruff and cruel words of his relatives, had not wanted to believe that it would ever be over. Malfoy had escaped justice so often, no matter what he had done, that part of Harry had expected him to escape again. But he had not. That, more than anything else, showed him that the times really had changed. That he and Hermione had been successful. And the little git had gone through the Veil crying and screaming. Harry grinned at the memory. Not only because he liked seeing Draco lose it completely and die a coward, but for the propaganda value too. Another example of purebloods failing to uphold their own ideals. No proud, composed death there, just a whiny coward begging for his worthless life.

It wasn’t that Draco himself had actually been important. He had just been a symbol of the corruption of the old system. A symptom of the disease of Wizarding Britain. That a wizard that stupid - or, as Hermione would say, in the privacy of their flat, or bed, after a long day, a wizard even more stupid than the average pureblood - had been able to come so far had been a crime in itself. Another Hermione quote.

Draco was not only stupid though, but he was evil too. A dangerous combination, but in the real world, such people tended to be stopped by the system. In the old Wizarding Britain, the system had protected them. Malfoy had been able to insult, bully, and attack anyone he wanted, without suffering any real consequences from the authorities. Even worse, his victims were usually punished by said authorities. Harry felt anger rise up inside him when he thought of just what Draco had done, and how little had been done about him. If only he had killed the scumbag back in their school years… but he had been a stupid little wizard back then, happy to serve the great wizard Dumbledore and his vision of a stagnant society of inbreds.

Well, he had learned his lesson. Late, but not too late. With the help of Hermione, of course. Who else? He snuck an arm around his lover’s waist, and pulled her closer. Being so close to the Veil always made him feel cold inside. He could hear the whispers from the veil, more clearly now than before. Before he had had the three Hallows. He took a deep breath, inhaling Hermione’s scent, feeling her warmth. Death could not touch him with her here.

“Oy! Get a room you two!” Ron interrupted his thoughts, with a grin. He grinned back, not angry at all about the interruption. It felt good to have Ron back. The good Ron, not the jealous immature one. The grown up Ron. All the bravery, courage and recklessness he knew so well and less of the jealousy, insecurity, and stupidity. Hopefully. He wasn’t holding his breath, to be honest - people changed, but rarely that completely. Still, Ron didn’t have to change much to be a good friend once more - no one was perfect. Not even Hermione. His Hermione.

Luna stepped up to them, asking for a quote. Harry was happy to oblige - as Hermione was fond to say, words influenced people as much as deeds, and with less costs, usually. 

“Today we saw justice being done. It was long in coming, but it did come. I can only hope that it will serve as a lesson to others who still cling to their hatred and bigotry, before they too will commit a crime.” 

There, fitting for his position as Chief Warlock. And less provocative than ‘He finally got what he deserved, far too late for his victims.’, which was what he was thinking. 

Hermione said: “Draco Malfoy thought that he was above the law, untouchable, but did not realize that the law has changed. All are equal before the law now, and we will strive to make sure that this will extend to any law, not just criminal law. This is a new Wizarding Britain, no longer the playground of a few families, with the rest of us their toys and scapegoats. While it saddens me that a young life was ended today, I am glad it was needed before it could end more lives.” After a pause, she added: “Please make sure that you use the correct name. It’s ‘Execution Chamber’, not ‘Death Chamber’, Luna.” 

From the way Luna smiled, and the way she giggled when Ron added his thoughts, Harry was quite certain what exactly would go into the article, and what would not.

He was still a bit uneasy about Luna’s reaction to all the death she had seen. She had insisted that she was present at every Death Eater execution, as a reporter for the Quibbler. He would have believed that, if not for that fact that she was so happy about each death. Luna had not cared at all about the bullies from Ravenclaw making her life at Hogwarts hell. And yet the way she relaxed each time one of Voldemort’s beasts went through the Veil, as if an immense weight had been lifted off her shoulders… Harry couldn’t imagine what Luna must have gone through in her time in the dungeons to be so happy about seeing them die, but he knew he would do anything to make sure she’d not suffer anymore. He had failed her once - no, twice, counting the bullying - he’d not fail her again.

He shook off the grim and gloomy thoughts. There were more important things to think about than the end of Draco Malfoy. Far more important things, like friendship, and bravery, and love. He smiled at Ron and Luna, still holding Hermione closely. “So… what do you say, dinner at Grimmauld Place today? I promise I won’t let Kreacher or Hermione cook!” That earned him an elbow in his ribs from a pouting Hermione, and laughter from Ron and Luna.

To some, the sight of four young people laughing in the room where just minutes ago a man’s life had been ended would have looked weird, even sick. But those four, veterans of one of the bloodiest, most brutal wars of the wizarding world, had become quite familiar with death. Too familiar, even, especially in Harry’s case.

*****

Augusta Longbottom put down the Daily Prophet. Draco Malfoy was dead. That upstart French line had ended as it should have a generation ago. If only they had died then. It wouldn’t have saved her son and her daughter in law, but her grandson might not have to hide from his former friends in his greenhouse right now. Not that he thought of it as hiding from his friends, at least not out of fear for his life. He, as he had confessed to her, was torn between loyalty to his friends, and loyalty to his culture. Augusta understood that, but, older and more cynical, she felt Neville was too optimistic. Too brave to be safe in this new regime, where old loyalties and deeds apparently did not count anything anymore.

Augusta had opposed that cursed Marriage Law, which had caused all this. Not because felt it was wrong per se, but she didn’t want to risk others meddle in her family’s life. She wouldn’t want to see Neville married to someone unsuitable. Not that she had anything against muggleborns, of course, but good breeding took more than seven years of Hogwarts. If one wasn’t raised right, then one would always be off in good society, and she wasn’t sure she’d live long enough to make sure her great-grandchildren would be raised right. Neville certainly wouldn’t be able to ensure it, her grandson was too much like her son, too smitten to say no to anyone he loved.

She sighed. Not that there was much of the right circles left. The new regime had been so brutal, and so efficient. Like muggles. Voldemort had been an amateur, using a corrupt and bloated bureaucracy in his crusade against muggleborn, more hindered than helped even by those willing, like that ugly toad, mostly due to sheer incompetence bred by nepotism.

But the new regime was not better, just different. Efficient, yes, but uncouth. And brutal, oh so brutal and bloodthirsty. Executing people for wishing to arrange marriages? A few generations ago, that was the norm, only instead of the Ministry or the Wizengamot, families arranged that. And if they needed a potion or two to help a heir along… family mattered. People understood that. Good people.

But not many of them left. Too many caught up in their own plots, too many grown weak and foolish, too pampered by the system their ancestors had created. Fools all of them. She had been surprised the Weasleys had been smart enough to see the signs, and escape the fate of so many families. Arthur had at least raised one son right, Percy had a promising future ahead of him.

She leaned back, sipping tea her house-elf had served. Another change she didn’t like - magical vows to treat a house-elf well? Such a proposal would have been grounds enough for a honor duel in her parents’ time, as if anyone of good breeding would have been so uncouth as to mistreat a house elf! That upstart girl had not changed at all since the days of her foolish crusade for elves.

To think that Wizarding Britain was now led by two children - and children without any knowledge of its traditions and customs! How the mighty have fallen, indeed. Augusta blamed the Death Eaters for all of it. Fools, beasts, who corrupted the honor and tradition of British pureblood culture. Of course what else could have been expected from people so stupid as to follow a muggle-raised half-blood who was trying to act as if he was a pureblood of a good family? A half-blood who ultimately fell to another half-blood, and between the two of them, they managed to drag most of Britain’s pureblood families to their doom.

If anyone would write a play about that it would be a great tragedy. Not that there had been a wizarding playwright in a century, or a good playwright in… well, even longer. Augusta didn’t dwell on that fact, and sipped her tea. Neville wouldn’t be coming in for another hour. The old woman sighed. How could she make sure Neville would stay safe until this all blew over? She had been proud when Neville had emerged as a hero in the war. He was a leader, a true son of the Longbottoms, but his Gryffindor courage could now spell doom for the family line. She needed to keep him away from politics until they were no longer so deadly.

But Augusta was at a loss just how she could do that. Neville had grown up, he was no longer the child she could order around, and he was too stubborn to be easily guided. A boy - man - who had screamed defiance into the face of Voldemort himself would no longer be cowed by a stern old woman, she knew that.

She could only hope the two upstarts ruling what was left of Wizarding Britain would not kill Neville should he disagree with them. But they had killed Shacklebolt… Augusta was frustrated and afraid, oh so afraid. She didn’t cry, it was not proper, but she certainly felt like it.

*****

At the same time, in an old office, the latest issues of the Quibbler and the Daily Prophet were lying on a desk. The man at the desk had read them both, thoroughly. Just as he had read all the issues before them, and the reports from other sources, ever since he had heard about the Marriage Law Massacre.

He was the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, and he was very pleased about the events still shaking Wizarding Britain to its - in his opinion - rotten core. He was certain all of his predecessors would be pleased as well. He leaned back, folding his hands, pondering a plan he had had for some time. It was risky, quite risky, but could he let this opportunity go to waste? He shook his head. Her Majesty agreed with him. They could not let things continue as they had been. They had a duty to their people.

******* **


	9. Politics

**Chapter 9: Politics**

Harry Potter and Hermione had gotten comfortable on the couch in their living room, after another day of pushing Wizarding Britain into the 20th century. They had eaten Winky’s latest three-course menu, and changed into more comfortable clothes. Hermione had a book on her lap, and Harry was fiddling around with a prototype from WWW - George recently had started to work seriously again. Hermione wasn’t actually reading the book though, he could tell since she hadn’t turned a page in minutes. And he was not actually doing anything but turning the thing around in his hands. 

“So… “

“So.”

“The Prime Minister asks for a meeting with his esteemed colleague, Minister for Magic Granger,” Harry said.

Hermione nodded. “He wants to talk about the events of the last years. A lot of non-magical people died in the war, a lot of infrastructure got destroyed, and the Ministry didn’t do anything to stop that.”

“I guess neither Fudge nor Scrimgeour, much less Voldemort’s puppet ever talked to him much.”

Hermione snorted, but it lacked any humor. “Unless Fudge and Scrimgeour somehow changed personalities when talking to him, I fear we can consider ourselves lucky if the Prime Minister is not ready to reinstate the Witch Hunts.”

Harry jerked. Did she really think that? Hermione put a hand on his lower arm. “That was hyperbole. But he certainly has reasons enough to dislike and distrust magicals.”

“Purebloods you mean,” Harry said.

“Will he make that distinction? I don’t know what he knows about Wizarding Britain. I am certain he knows more than my esteemed predecessor thought. For someone who had been working on the Prime Minister’s staff for a while at least, Shacklebolt was really ignorant, as his files show.” Hermione shook her head. “I fear he used Obliviate a lot to protect his cover. And Compulsion Charms”

Harry nodded. That would fit. “Yes. He was all about the ends justify the means - but only when it came to non-magicals. Or muggleborns.”

Hermione sighed. “He certainly was quick to build alliances with the pureblooded nobility to ‘rebuild Wizarding Britain, better than before’, no matter what they had done in the war, the bastard.”

“Language, Hermione!” Harry chided her, jokingly. Both laughed, but grew serious quickly.

“I didn’t even contact him after our ... election,” Hermione said, looking down at a spot on the floor. “I didn’t know that there was a line of communication from the Minister for Magic to the Prime Minister. Fudge was a messenger in that position, under Scrimgeour, but he never mentioned it before his execution. And there was nothing in Shacklebolt’s files.” Hermione scowled, then growled. “How that man thought he could lead the Ministry is beyond me! His office was so disorganized, he filed nothing, but expected reports from everyone - reports he then lost in his own office!” The woman growled, and Harry pulled her into his lap before she could start a rant at the late Minister’s hypocrisy.

He coughed. “Well… we didn’t interrogate Fudge about his work, only about his crimes. And that focused on his time as Minister for Magic, and then on his work for the rape law faction. Did Percy know anything about the meetings with the Prime Minister?”

“He found notes from past meetings. I guess the archivar would have known more, but since she had been searching the archives for muggleborn records for Voldemort…” Hermione trailed off. 

Harry nodded. That had been a death sentence, once they had taken over. All the pureblood Ministry employees who had happily, eagerly helped to mass murder muggleborns had been in for a rude awakening, after the storming of the Ministry, when Veritaserum had exposed their past lies. He frowned, remembering how he had thrown the fact that most employees of his Ministry had been happy to help commit mass murder in Shacklebolt’s face - and how Veritaserum had revealed that the man had known that all along, but had decided to accept any excuse, just so he could keep them. And he hadn’t even been deluding himself about redemption, nor had he wanted to avoid killing people. No, all he had wanted was to keep the Ministry running smoothly, and to keep the Wizengamot happy. He really had not cared about past crimes, as long as he wasn’t affected himself. And the Marriage Law would have served both his aims - happy Wizengamot members, and more couples busy raising kids, and not raising questions about justice. 

Harry grinned maliciously, remembering how shocked Shacklebolt had been when he was sentenced to death. He had still been reeling, stammering, when he had been pushed through the Veil. 

Harry’s thoughts were interrupted by Hermione slapping his arm. “Harry! Focus! We have to plan this meeting. It’s embarrassing that I didn’t inform him when I took over as Minister, to explain that it happened because we had all the people in the know executed too quickly to find out about it… they do not have the death penalty in the United Kingdom, not anymore.”

“Are we part of the United Kingdom?” Harry asked.

Hermione bit her lower lip, a gesture that made her look like the teenager she had been until a bit ago, and not the woman who had engineered a coup d’etat in Wizarding Britain. Harry pulled her closer, and rested his chin on her shoulder. The love of his life.

“It’s murky. No, it’s confusing, and not clear at all. The Wizengamot was granted the right of self-government with the Statute of Secrecy, but no treaty ever granted them sovereignty. But there has been no factual control by the Crown or any Prime Minister ever since the Statute went into effect, and the relationship was closer to two sovereign governments - when they were not ignoring each other. On the other hand, almost all muggleborns are British citizens, and quite a number of half-bloods are either citizens, or could qualify for citizenship, having lived in the United Kingdom all their life. The land the magicals claim - Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley, several country estates - have never been officially ceded to them by the Crown, but one could make an argument analogue to squatter rights - no royal government tried to exert power over those areas in centuries. But then, Obliviation, anti-muggle charms and other magic was used to hide them from normal people, so they couldn’t have known about those areas. That could be treated as a crime, or even an invasion. And we haven’t even touched taxes. Income taxes are relatively simple. Income in galleons is subject to taxes by the Ministry for Magic, income in pounds is taxed by the Crown. But other taxes, or duties… And when it comes to criminal law, things are really bad. Crimes by magicals against normal people generally were not persecuted, unless it was politically expedient. The victims, if still alive, were obliviated, and some ‘Muggle-worthy excuse’ was concocted so no one thought there had been a crime in the first place. Even the Muggle Protection Act didn’t change that. And the Wizengamot ignored just about all laws and principles of a fair trial.” Hermione was grinding her teeth at the injustice of it, and Harry calmed her down by planting a few tender kisses on her neck. After a deep breath, she continued. “So… we are meeting the Prime Minister, and we have no idea if we legally are a regional government with some autonomy, a part of the British Government out of control for centuries, a Dominion like Canada was, or a foreign power that just happens to share most of its territory with the United Kingdom. And we don’t know what the Prime Minister believes we are.”

Harry, as often was the case, cut to the heart of the matter. “What do we want to be?”

“I don’t know. It is likely one if not the most important decision we have to make, and I don’t know.” Hermione sighed, but her mind was already going through the arguments. “As a foreign nation we’d be sovereign, but we would have to solve so many problems with regards to the treatment of citizens, dual citizenship, taxes, land ownership, liabilities for infractions - the Obliviators alone will be a really sore topic - and other things, we’d be negotiating treaties for years. And we’d be quite vulnerable too, even if we were sovereign, with all the relatives of muggleborns being British citizens, and living in the United Kingdom. Not to mention enforcing the Statute of Secrecy and other ICW regulations could be seen as a hostile act from a foreign nation by the United Kingdom. 

“But we cannot simply assume the Ministry is a part of Her Majesty’s Government. We cannot comply with most of the regulations for the government without violating our obligations to the ICW. And most of the British laws need a lot of adjustments to fit the Magical World.” 

Hermione sighed again. Harry didn’t quite grin - his love had been so sure that she could rebuild Wizarding Britain using the laws of the United Kingdom as blueprints, but just about everything turned out to be much more complicated than one would have thought. Neville had been able to deal with the results of British agricultural regulations meeting magical plants - after about a week - and that had just been the most prominent problem.

Hermione growled again. He knew she would have liked seeing Wizarding Britain as a part of the United Kingdom, ultimately under the rule of the democratically elected British Government - all normal people. It would have been the ultimate insult in the face of the purebloods. “I think it’s best we strive for a regional autonomy, or a Dominion-like status. That way, our treaties bind the United Kingdom too, somewhat, and we don’t push the issue.”

Harry coughed, but didn’t say anything. Hermione narrowed her eyes, turned her head and looked at him. “What?”

Harry hesitated, but another glare made him talk. “Do we have to settle the legal issues? We could leave it in limbo, where it has been for centuries, and focus on the, ah, practical issues.” He smiled at Hermione. 

Hermione scoffed. Harry knew that the idea of not solving a problem, of not clearing up an unclear issue, deeply offended her. She liked her country like her life - organized, orderly, and clear. And yet, she had had to learn that sometimes, not the most logical or elegant, but the most practical way was the best choice. Sometimes.

“That may be a good course of action.” She ground the words out, and Harry started to run his hands over her shoulders, massaging them. 

  
“And what are the most pressing issues?” Harry asked. He knew a number himself, but Hermione had a list, in her head, if not on paper. She always had a list or three.

“Mundane-Magical relations, especially with regards to criminals and the education of muggleborn. The Statute of Secrecy and its enforcement. Squibs. Magical species and their status and needs - and the effects of pollution. Liability for past transgressions by magicals.”

“Do you think the Prime Minister will bring that up?”

“Even if he doesn’t, it’s our responsibility. There might be dozens, hundreds of traumatized people out there, victims of magic, obliviated, and denied justice.” Hermione was passionate about that, Harry knew. Probably caused to a considerable degree by her own guilt about her treatment of her parents, not that he’d mention that.

“True. And it bringing it up ourselves should earn us some goodwill. Unless it’s seen as a weakness,” He added with a frown. He did not trust politicians, not after Fudge, Scrimgeour, and Dumbledore, but he didn’t know much about the Prime Minister. The Dursleys had complained a lot about his policies, but Vernon Dursley had complained about everything.

Hermione scoffed - she was still a bit more idealistic than Harry. “So, we ignore the legal status of Wizarding Britain, and focus on the most pressing issues. Unless of course he presses the question about our status.”

“Hopefully he’ll not raise that question.”

“When did a politician ever not disappoint our hopes?”

“There’s always a first time for everything.”

Hermione turned around in his lap, and kissed him. The rest of the evening and for most of the night, politics took a backseat to passion and love.

*****

Three days later, the Prime Minister was waiting for the Minister for Magic and the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot in his office. His new office, to be precise, free of magical paintings and magical chimneys. The old office was currently ’under renovation’, as far as the press and most of his staff was concerned. A number of sketches and caricatures making fun of him having to move out from a leaky office were a small price to pay for an office wizards could not walk in whenever they wanted to. He glanced at the two bodyguards standing in the corners. Another change. Some of his staff wondered why he had picked a number of new bodyguards, some of them not as extensively trained as his usual security detail, but those and the two hidden behind the fake paneling were all squibs - children born to magical parents without magic themselves. Or, to be more precise, without enough magic to wield a wand. They were still magical enough to use a variety of magic items, and could spot a lot of magic. He didn’t expect trouble from his visitors, but if they tried anything, he’d be ready. 

His secretary announced that ‘Mister Potter and Miss Granger’ had arrived. She wasn’t informed about the magical world, so she likely was wondering who those visitors were, but he couldn’t risk spreading that knowledge too far. Not yet, in any case. 

When the two mentioned and their bodyguards entered, the Prime Minister barely could conceal his surprise. He had, intellectually, known they were young, but to meet them… they really were, as one of his advisors had stated, ‘a teenage couple fresh out of school’. Then he met their eyes - briefly, he knew how they could read minds if one stared into their eyes - and had to correct himself. Those eyes were not those of school kids, they were far too old for their age. They had the eyes of war veterans.

Still, just because they had seen the elephant didn’t make them experienced politicians. After all, plenty of young soldiers went to war, just a few years ago the United Kingdom had taken  part in the Gulf War. And while the public and the press might see it as a walk in the park due to the briefness of the war and the casualty figures, anyone who had been there knew that it hadn’t been a picnic. 

Neither of his visitors looked awed at being in his presence. For all his rather middle class upbringing, according to his files, Harry Potter looked around as if he was a third bodyguard, looking for threats and meeting his eyes evenly, and Hermione Granger looked cool and composed. But then, her family had been of a better class. Not nobility, but well-off and educated.

He invited them to take a seat, and glanced at their two bodyguards. Dean Thomas, a wizard according to his files, muggle raised, and Robert Smith, a wizard, though information about his life was even sketchier than normal. He had been involved in a few violent incidents on foreign shores, according to his file. A mercenary. The minister briefly wondered if the two young people knew about that, or if Smith had kept this secret. Something to look into, but not now.

After exchanging a few pleasantries about the weather, of all topics, and after some refreshments had been offered and accepted - everyone chose to overlook the quick wandwork that was without a doubt a check for poison - they started to discuss matters of importance.

“First, let me congratulate you on your elections. I was, sadly, informed rather late about this event, or I’d have done so right after your election.” He smiled politely, but checked their reaction. No blustering, no arrogance like from that Fudge fellow. Though Granger had pursed her lips for a moment, and had that been a bit of color on her cheek?

“That is entirely our fault, Prime Minister. Due to the circumstances of our election, we were not informed of the customary introduction,” the girl - he had trouble thinking of her as a woman - stated. “Most of the Ministry employees were tried and executed for crimes against humanity, as were most of the Wizengamot members and the Minister for Magic himself, so there was no one available to allow a smooth transition of power.”

Now he had to suppress the urge to gape. He had known there had been executions, but that many? And the girl was talking in the same tone she had talked about the weather. Cool and composed.

“Crimes against humanity?”

Granger proceeded to list - without any help of notes that he could see - the charges against the Minister for Magic and his staff. Genocide, murder, mass murder, kidnapping, torture, rape, conspiracy to all that, and that were just the highlights. The Chief Warlock had to interrupt her before she could list the minor crimes - that woman was smart, far smarter than any of the other Ministers for Magic he had had the displeasure to know, but could get lost in details. He made a mental note of that.

“So, after the tribunals ended most of our establishment was executed, or had fled. As you can see, we have had our hands full reorganizing the Ministry,” she concluded.

“I see.” And he did. It had not been a coup d’etat, more like a civil war, from the death toll. Though he didn’t really feel bad about it - quite the contrary. He had not forgotten how humiliating his treatment by Fudge and Scrimgeour had been. And how dismissive they had been of his people and the deaths their criminals had caused. 

He nodded and listened while Minister Granger explained what had been done so far to reform Wizarding Britain. Part of him liked what he heard - reforms in line with the United Kingdom’s laws and customs. For all their youth, the two seemed skilled leaders. Provided they were not lying, but his information backed them up. But part of him was not happy at seeing, hearing two competent wizards in charge of the magicals. Skilled, smart leaders with magic powers were dangerous - far more dangerous than Fudge and his ilk had been.

He would have to revise his plans to take over Wizarding Britain, and bring it back under the control of the British Government. But then - they had lost most of their upper class, and almost all of their bureaucracy. They were weak and vulnerable, and as far as he could tell, more fond of the United Kingdom than the Wizengamot. He smiled. It wouldn’t be as easy as he had hoped, but he’d see this rebellious province brought to heel.

******* **


	10. A Brewing Storm

**Chapter 10: A Brewing Storm**

Daniel Jones suppressed a yawn and pinched his thigh, hidden under the desk he was sitting at, to keep himself awake. He was seated in the third row in the small classroom, listening to an instructor go on about proper police procedures to secure evidence. At least he knew now why the tv shows always skipped that part - it was boring. Of course he understood how important it was to catch criminals, and how a single mistake could mean a case would never get solved, at least not without magical means. It was still a lesson more boring than Magic History ever had been. At least the Goblin Wars had had some action, if one read the books. And if not one could sleep there, and miss nothing. He wished, not for the first time, the instructor would add examples from the field to his lesson. Or that he could use a dictapen, instead of taking notes by hand. Sometimes he wanted to curse the Statute of Secrecy… especially when everyone treated him as a cadet from a backwater town, and not as the Magical Law Enforcement officer he was. Granted, he hadn’t been an MLE officer that long, only since the Revolution, but he had done good work since then, caught a fleeing blood purist by himself on his first day, before they even had the correct uniforms. If he heard the term ‘wait until you start working… if you make the cut’ one more time…

Sighing, Daniel took more notes. For all his - silent - whining, he was a dutiful officer. That’s why he had been selected for this assignment, after all. The Magical Law Enforcement Division needed people who could pass for muggle police officers, and could work with them, and knew what they had to offer. And - as the rumor went, Minister Granger had personally added that to the mission goal - people who could work on creating magical equivalents. But the main goal was to prevent criminals from abusing the divide between the magical and the non-magical world. As an investigation following a few statements under Veritaserum during the Tribunals had shown, far too many magicals had been very apt at committing crimes in the non-magical world and using magic to hide any evidence of it - often helped along by Ministry policies. Daniel’s face grew hard. He knew what kind of sick crimes had been covered up by Obliviators, all in the name of keeping magic a secret and their pockets full. As long as non-magical people were the victims, the Ministry had not cared at all. But they had paid, all of them. With their lives. And once he had finished his courses here, he’d do his best to make sure it would not happen again.

A faint smile appeared on his face. Not so long ago he had been just another muggleborn who had been refused entrance into the Auror Corps despite his grades surpassing five purebloods who were accepted. He had been looking at either getting a menial job in a shop, or return to the normal world as a drop out without any skills. And now he had returned to the normal world as a full-fledged law enforcement officer, and one who could make a difference. And he was not the only one. A friend and former yearmate of his, Jennifer-Anne Wilkinson, was taking lessons in criminology. Jerome the class clown - though not on par with the Weasley twins - was learning how to handle police dogs. Daniel focused on taking notes again. He didn’t want to think about the rest of his friends, killed by Death Eaters.

*****

Albert Nott closed the door behind him and threw his suitcase on his couch before removing his tie, cursing the small strip of fabric. Just his luck - Wizarding Britain decided to join the 20th century, dropped robes and pointed hats, but replaced them with suits and ties. Ready-made nooses, in his opinion.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down in front of the telly, his take-out food on the small table, the smell of curry filling the room. Another day spent in Wizarding Britain, a place he hadn’t wanted to return to, ever, once he understood just what fate he had escaped when he was 11 and his Hogwarts letter had not arrived. His father would have killed him, he knew. Had planned to, even, but then the Dark Lord had been defeated, and his father hadn’t been willing to risk a dead squib son while people were still wondering if the Imperius defence would hold. So he had been dropped off at a muggle orphanage, one ‘used to dealing with squibs’. He snorted, remembering the time spent there. Yes, they were used to dealing with kids who had no clue about the muggle world, and no ties to the magical world anymore. They had been dealing with them in the same way for generations - by shoving them into the army, where they didn’t need much of an education and would get killed in some backwater colonial skirmish.

  
Well, Great Britain had mostly ran out of such colonies. He had missed the Falklands, but had taken part in the the Gulf War. As a ground pounder, and not one in the special forces, he hadn’t seen much action though. But he had been accepted, had his place, his life. No wife, but then, he had been young. Still was, he reminded himself. And a wife meant kids, and kids meant possible wizards. Could he stomach having a son who could cast spells, while he couldn’t, would never be able to? He shoved the thought away, returning to the past. 

And then the Dark Lord had returned. He remembered the times, reading the newspapers. Realizing what was happening. Getting a Daily Prophet in the Leaky Cauldron whenever he was in London - which was not often the case. Wondering what was happening. Wondering about his family, his cousin Theo, wondering if one of them would show up at his door, ready to ‘restore the family honour’. And then the war had ended, and the stupid wizards had celebrated openly again.

He had finished his meal, and pulled up some paper for the report to his handler. Officially, he was taking part in some exchange of information with the Ministry for Magic, to create lines of communications in case there was a need for close coordination, one day. Unofficially, but with the blessing of the government, he was to gather information about the new regime, especially its weaknesses. To him, raised in a scheming pureblood household, it looked like someone on the muggle side was preparing for a coup. It suited him fine - he was not fond of any wizard, muggleborn or pureblood. Purebloods wanted him dead, muggleborns had received what he had wanted, had needed, just out of pure luck. Not that he had seen many hidden weaknesses so far. The wizards mostly lacked numbers, but what they had were decently organized. A number of them had muggle military training even, obvious to him in how they spoke and acted.

He paused in describing the structure of the fast response teams of the MLED and glanced at his suitcase. Maybe he should reconsider his indifference, seeing as he was the legal heir of the Nott family. He had a stake in the magical world now. But he didn’t know, yet, which side would serve his interest best, so he’d play a waiting game. He snorted at the irony -  for all his hatred for his family, he would have fitted into Slytherin just fine.

*****

Ron Weasley was happy. Tired, exhausted, but happy. For the first time in his life, he had found something he liked more than Quidditch. Well, apart from food, and girls, of course. His mother would be angry, once she’d find out, his father would be intrigued, and his brothers confused. But he liked learning how to really fight more than Quidditch. And he was better at it too. Not that he was bad at Quidditch, mind you. But he was really good at combat and tactics. Really, really good.

He wasn’t the best wizard. He was no slouch with his wand, but he hadn’t the skill of Hermione, or the raw power and instincts of Harry. But damn, he was good at fighting, muggle style. Real fighting, not the brawling most wizards thought of when they heard the word. Muggles had the thing down to a science, or an artform. And he was loving learning it. Despite the work involved. If Hermione could see him, reading ahead of the class - well, course. It wasn’t a class. Just some special lessons by some experienced soldiers and instructors. And physical training. And exercises. And shooting. Sorry, marksmanship. He loved it. And he got better at it each day. And in better shape too, if he said so himself. He thanked Oliver Wood again. If not for his crazy training schedule, which his successors had kept up, he’d not be able to survive the physical part. Well, he’d survive, but be in much more pain. He’d still love it, though - shooting was just so much fun! 

The only thing more fun than shooting was leading. He loved directing an exercise, positioning soldiers, planning and executing a battle. It was like chess, only much better. More vicious, more exciting, more alive. No rules to hold him back. Any limit was a challenge to overcome. And most of all, no silly rules like ‘no lethal spells’. Muggle fighting was all about killing the enemy before they killed you. He was fine with that.

Sometimes he thought his wand was useless, given just how far those rifles could reach, and how fast they could spit out bullets that tore through most shield spells. Not through Harry’s, of course, or Hermione’s, and his own would stand up to fire as well, but most wizards couldn’t cast a Shield Charm that could deflect a 7.6 mm full metal jacket bullet fired from a battle rifle at a range closer than 100 meters. And sustained fire went through eventually, or made the shield collapse. That had been a discovery everyone had been talking about, even the muggles. Especially the muggles. Ron had loved teaching his teachers a thing or two, it had felt good to show them what he could do. And he had managed to see and shoot more firearms. After hearing about machine guns - heavy machine guns! He couldn’t wait for that lesson! - Ron could understand his father’s love for muggle things. 

Though he also understood that his father never really realised how frighteningly effective muggles were at what they did. Especially at fighting. His dad still had the ‘for non-magicals, they do well’ attitude so many wizards shared, but Ron wasn’t sure even an Auror squad, if they still existed, would fare well against the lads who were teaching him and his mates. Throw up some Anti-Apparition Jinxes, and some way to block or spot disillusionment, and it wouldn’t even be a contest.

Ron blinked, then pulled out a notebook. He had finally started to use them, after being told that he couldn’t use parchment and quills or he’d damage his cover. Not that there was much of a cover, his instructors were all squibs, married to squibs, or had family members who were muggleborns. It had galled him to admit it to Hermione (and the girl had not let him forget it since) but she had been right, they were more handy than what he was used to. He made a few notes about possible combined arms tactics. 

If a wizard focused on neutralising Apparition and countering disillusion spells, then muggle soldiers could beat enemy wizards easily. Unless of course someone started throwing around Confundus Spells and Imperiuses. Protecting muggles against those would be the first priority of any wizard. But apart from that… maybe some way to mark invisible targets with colored markers that floated above them. A copy of the charm on Moody’s eye should see through most invisibility devices. Combine them, somehow, and it would be a shooting gallery. That left the anti-muggle wards though. They would need a way to break those quickly, or a whole squad would suddenly break off and return to base. On the other hand, those wards had a pitiful range, compared to rifles, much less artillery. Maybe a wizard spotter got close, concealed himself, and used spells that marked a target so only muggles using infrared goggles could see it, leaving the soldiers to kill from further away...

Ron chewed on a sandwich - another good thing: No one was commenting on his appetite here - and wrote down a few more thoughts, before closing the notebook and picking up a book from his shelf. He had to finish a paper on small unit tactics in the Vietnam War.

*****

Antoine Malfoy - of the French Malfoys, not the English branch, not that there was an English branch anymore these days - the representative of Magical France to the International Confederation of Wizards, schooled his features. He almost looked bored, despite his tension. This was an important moment, possibly the most important moment of his time at the ICW. The delegate from Wizarding Britain, Alphard Stanford, was about to speak. Antoine sneered internally. Technically, he was the former delegate - his own Ministry had recalled him, on the grounds of his actions during the Second Blood War, which was what the English called that insurrection by the half-blood upstart Riddle. Of course Stanford, who had had some quite damning views of mudbloods, as Antoine had found out at a late dinner with lots of his best wine, had not returned, and had sought asylum, on the grounds of being persecuted for his pureblood status. That had made some waves in the usually quiet institution - also because no one was certain if the ICW could even grant asylum. In the end, nothing had come of it. Antoine hadn’t been surprised, since the British mudbloods didn’t understand how important the ICW was, and had not made more of a fuss. Again, not surprisingly, since they were not just mudbloods, but British mudbloods. Even the Prussians and the Russians had more brains than those.

While Stanford was going on about the evils of the mudblood regime in Britain and their crimes against pureblood maidens, Malfoy glanced around. The speech wasn’t important, other than to drum up sympathy in the press. Stanford should know that, one of his predecessors had tried to drum up support for the fight against Riddle with similar arguments, without any success. None of the American delegates cared a bit about the fates of the English. The various North American States were still more concerned about the slavery issue. Even after two wars they hadn’t settled that yet. Malfoy himself was, of course, all for the enslavement of mudbloods, but it wouldn’t do to voice that - not with France doing so well by staying neutral in that currently cold conflict. Wizards had long memories, and the North American Wizards never forgot who had helped them win their independence from Britain, even if they had forgotten that originally, they had seceded because Wizarding Britain - in a fit of typical English foolishness that had, sadly, infected most of the rest of Europe back then - had banned slavery. Of course, the shamans of the Native American Magical Nations wouldn’t get involved in anything at all that didn’t directly concern them, and they had their hands full in keeping the conflict between the North American Magical States alive, so they couldn’t unite and clear up some of the old issues between them and the shamans, permanently. There was a reason there were no native American Magical Nations left east of the Mississippi.

South and Central Americas were in a similar state, though not over slavery - none of them ever gave that up - but struggled for control over the magical nexi the different Magical Conquistadores had taken from the Aztec, Mayan and Incan wizards they had murdered. Antoine glanced over at the representative of Magical Spain. That country was a non-entity too.  Magical Spain had lost most of its wizards to the Americas due to the Inquisition. Only Italy’s wizards had suffered worse, without a conveniently depopulated magical continent to move to. These days, Spain’s Ministry was mainly trying to make sure the ever-present idea of Reconquista, meaning, the return of the motherland into the fold of the True Magical Spain in Exile, was not becoming a reality.

Asia was mostly occupied with their internal struggles between India, China and Japan, and no one had ever offered the Australians membership. Antoine still had to shake his head at the foolishness of the English wizards, trying to colonize that continent. Africa… well, apart from Northern Africa, which was nominally under the rule of the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, or whatever faction in his harem was currently directing him, there was no Magical Africa. Not any more, not since those foolish primitive tribes had tried to use magic to throw out the muggle colonialists. The ICW was usually quite slow to move - unless the Statute of Secrecy was threatened like that. After the fatal fate of the magical tribes in Africa no one had tried to follow their example. Not even Grindelwald had threatened the Statute of Secrecy.

Antoine grinned. And the Great Punishing Expedition also had netted Magical France, Prussia, Russia and, sadly, Britain, vast amounts of suddenly unpopulated magical areas. Some were even nominally independent now. Part of his own family’s wealth had come from looting the fabled City of Gold. It had gone a long way to refill their coffers after the theft by the English Branch. Privately, Antoine and his family had cheered when he heard of their executions, at last a good thing to come from the English, but officially of course they were appalled by the murder of their family. Their anger had turned real, unfortunately, when the mudbloods had confiscated the estate of the British Malfoys, and had not returned the wealth to the French branch of the family.

Stanford still hadn’t finished, even though no one but the press was listening. Not even the Supreme Mugwump. Antoine glanced at Herbert Steiner, the Prussian representative. Magical Prussia had been the heart of Grindelwald’s realm, and its muggleborns and half-bloods the core of his forces. The Bavarians had been, at best, followers, and the rest of the German states didn’t really matter, their mudbloods and half-bloods had flocked to Grindelwald, who had been promising them equal rights and a place under the sun, before throwing them at the Russian Wizards, where they bled, and then at France, where they died. Antoine had toasted Dumbledore’s death. That English bastard had stolen France’s triumph. French wizards, admittedly with help from the infamous Russian War Wizards, had stopped Grindelwald, had turned the tide, been ready to invade Prussia and the rest of the German states, and then some upstart English teacher arrives, and defeats his old friend Grindelwald, and everyone hails him as the saviour? Antoine had lost three uncles and both grandfathers in that war, and his family had lost three mansions and one estate.

At least Prussia had been too scared of suffering a ‘Punishing Expedition’, now that their Dark Lord had been defeated, and had been too happy to demonstrate they had learned their lesson, toting the ICW line better than anyone else. Unless things changed drastically - and he knew none of the purebloods currently in power in Prussia had changed - they’d not follow his lead. Magical Russia of course, represented by Igor Romanov, had been behind the mission from the start. And where Magical Russia went, Eastern Europe followed - willingly or not. At the same time, the Scandinavians would keep their distance from anything Russia was involved in, but then, the times of Viking Berserkers were long past. No, this day would see France and Russia show the world why purebloods ruled.

Stanford had finally finished, to weak applause mostly from relief it was over, and Antoine stood up to take his place. The fool still hadn’t realized that no one here really cared about the fate of British purebloods, wizards so weak and stupid, they had let mudbloods take over. No, there was only one thing that could move the ICW to act - or at least to let nations with more spine and esprit act - and that was the Statute of Secrecy. Antoine, who would have gladly invented a threat to the statute - one could not let mudbloods inspire more mudbloods, Grindelwald had shown how dangerous those beasts were -, could still hardly believe that that English scum actually was about to break the statute. They were training muggles in magical combat, even, instead of obliviating the animals! 

“My fellow wizards,” he began, his voice dripping with concern and sincerity, “we face a threat unheard of since the time of the Great Punishing Expedition! Those muggleborn who have taken over Wizarding Britain not only persecute and murder pureblood wizards in an attempt to stamp out our traditions, no, they are recruiting muggles for their goals! They are training muggles to fight wizards! Not even Grindelwald went that far, for all his evil deeds!”

At his silent prompt, his aide and nephew cast a spell and wizarding pictures showing muggles - or mudbloods, he didn’t care, they showed no wands - in muggle uniforms patrolling Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade and arresting students in Hogwarts. A pensieve was a wonderful way to capture pictures of events one could not openly take pictures at, worth every galleon he had paid for it.

Murmurs rose - mostly from the European representatives though. It seemed the Asians were not that concerned, though the Americans were somewhat livelier now. Antoine was fine with that. All he needed was the official mandate to deal with this threat, the rest France and Russia and their allies and vassals could do alone. Could do better alone, even - more spoils for everyone that way. After Riddle’s uprising and the murder of the purebloods, the mudbloods were too few and too weak anyway, to oppose two great nations whose wizards had been in a real wizard war, against a real Dark Lord, not some half-blood pretender and the weak fools who followed him without realizing that he was not even a pureblood, much less a lord.

To his anger, Prussia opposed his plan, and managed to get enough votes to change his proposed mandate from countering a threat to the Statute of Secrecy to investigating a possible threat to the Statute of Secrecy. Antoine glared at the Prussian delegate. It was a minor obstacle, the mudbloods were about to break the statute, and decisive action would be needed quickly, but if Prussia had finally grown a spine again… that could be trouble in the future.

******* **


	11. War

**Chapter 11:  War**

Hermione was still frowning when she and Harry Potter entered the atrium of the Ministry, on the way home. “I’ve got work to do! I have to prepare our reply to that query from the ICW about a possible breach of the Statute of Secrecy.”

“That’s not urgent. They were still debating whether or not Voldemort really had returned when we beat him at Hogwarts.” Harry sounded confident and dismissive at the same time. The ICW hadn’t impressed either of them, back during the war against Voldemort. Even with Dumbledore at the helm - or maybe because of it, Harry privately thought the man probably had called too many leaders ‘my boy’ - it hadn’t taken any action, claiming its mandate didn’t cover meddling in ‘internal affairs of a member nation’. 

Hermione was not convinced. “It did sound urgent. Breaches of the Statute of Secrecy are about the only thing the ICW takes seriously.”

“They certainly take it more seriously than an extradition request concerning a murderer,” Harry answered. 

“Suspected murderer, Harry,” Hermione corrected him as they were entering the Ministry’s atrium. “Until his conviction he’s a suspect.”

“Given what we know from witnesses and his fellow pureblood bigots, he most certainly helped draft the laws that sent muggleborns to Azkaban. That makes him a murderer.”

“Not exactly. It’s…”

Whatever Hermione had wanted to say was cut off by the sudden arrival of two dozen people by portkey in the international area. Around the two of them, other Ministry workers heading home stopped, no doubt curious as well about those arrivals

“Weren’t those warded?” Harry asked, frowning. His wand slipped out of his wrist-holster into his hand without a conscious thought. Hermione and he were a bit away from the arrival area, and none of the wizards there looked like one of the few missing pureblood purists, but there were charms and potions to mask one’s appearance. He was certain Dean and Robert and the guards in the atrium were alert as well, and prepared for a fight. The Ministry had been ready for an attack by surviving blood purists for some time now, even though nothing like that had happened. So far. 

“They are. Only diplomatic portkeys can get through, and those… Merlin! They must be a delegation from the ICW.” Hermione had her wand in hand as well - at least neither of them did shoot spells at any sudden sound anymore, that had been a bad time after the Battle of Hogwarts for both - and glared at him. “See? It was urgent!” She quickly cast a charm on herself, straightening her hair and clothes out.

“You’d have wasted the time writing anything anyway, seeing as they are here now. It would maybe be a bit of a snub if you tried communicating by letters now.” Harry grinned. He was a bit annoyed though - he had planned a nice private dinner for the two of them, with a new recipe that Winky had finally perfected. Ah, well, stasis charms would save it. He grinned even more when he saw that Hermione’s hair was already escaping the shape her charm had forced it into.

By the time they had reached the arrival area of for the diplomatic portkeys he had schooled his features, any trace of mirth - and romance - gone. It wasn’t difficult. From what they could see and hear, the delegation leader was loudly demanding that ‘Mister Potter and Miss Granger’ were to present themselves to him at once. Both he and Hermione had their wands hidden up their sleeves again. It wouldn’t do to make a bad first impression. 

Harry looked the man over. Young, almost as young as Harry and Hermione. Younger, if one counted experiences, Harry decided. Blond, though not Malfoy blond, with a pretty face that vaguely reminded him of Cedric Diggory, but a sneer worthy of Draco Malfoy at his worst. Harry pegged him as another puffed-up pureblood idiot. Most of the rest of delegation - two dozen - looked similar, if just a shade less arrogant. Still worse than Malfoy, a feat Harry wouldn’t have thought possible. They were wearing robes that must have cost a fortune, and were loaded down with every possible cosmetic charm in place, but that didn’t mean they were inept. Lavender Brown had made a good showing at the Battle of Hogwarts, after all, and had looked her best. The new arrivals knew enough not to not block each other’s line of sight and kept an eye on everyone in range inside the atrium. Still, no one seemed to be concerned about the disillusioned two people up on the first floor balcony at the other end of the hall - too far away for spellcasting. Almost point-blank range for a rifle though. So, purebloods. Two looked older, but it was clear those were not in charge. Not arrogant enough.

Harry’s estimate hadn’t taken more than a few seconds, covered by Hermione - whose analytical mind probably had seen a lot of things and clues he had missed, though likely nothing that directly concerned combat; he didn’t tend to miss anything in that area - introducing herself and Harry.

“I am Minister Granger. This is Chief Warlock Potter. May I inquire your name and the purpose of your visit? I was not aware of any scheduled visit by a diplomat.” Hermione’s voice was blandly polite, though Harry - and Dean and Robert, who had taken up positions slightly behind and to the side of them - certainly picked up the trace of annoyance in it. Hermione’s tolerance for anyone or anything that messed up her carefully planned schedule hadn’t exactly grown since her school days. Harry counted himself lucky to be the only one who could drag her away from work without suffering worse repercussions than some huffing and grumbling. Most of the time.

The young man drew himself up to his considerable height, and all but sneered down at them, the picture of a pureblood noble. “I’m Louis d’Orléans,” he stated, with a heavy French accent. 

Harry knew who the d’Orléans were - the royal family of Magical France. As Hermione had explained once, not that he recalled all of it, Magical France was a duchy, not a kingdom, since the French kings wouldn’t have tolerated another kingdom on their soil before the Statute of Secrecy. But for all that mattered, this was the French dauphin - the eldest son of the ruler of Magical France.

Louis glanced at them, probably to see if they were impressed, and continued: “I’m ‘ere to take control of the British Ministry for the duration of the ICW Investigation.” He held out his hand and one of his flunkies - probably a school friend of his, he looked the same age and wore far too expensive robes for a servant - handed him a rolled up parchment. He unrolled it and continued, unaware of the impact of his declaration on the British present. “This is the resolution of the ICW.” 

Harry wasn’t an expert in international magical law. No one among the British present was - they had shoved their last expert through the Veil for his actions in the courts during Voldemort’s reign. He did know his fellow British wizards well though. No matter how legal this resolution might be, the British muggleborn wizards would not submit to purebloods ever again, no matter their origin. He also realized that this was not an oversized honor guard for a diplomat, this was an undersized occupation force. He hoped they were smart enough to realize just how undersized they were, and wouldn’t actually try anything violent. 

Hermione met Louis’s eyes, seemingly ignoring the parchment. Harry saw her shift her weight just a bit, getting ready to dodge in case that parchment was a portkey. He also saw anger at such defiance flicker over the pretty face of the prince. Hermione’s voice was steady and full of determination when she answered him. “We will do our duties with regards to maintaining the Statute of Secrecy. But under no circumstances will we hand over control of our country to you or anyone else from the ICW.” With a polite, though just a tiny bit insulting smile, she continued: “We will of course have the DMLE investigate your claim of a breach of the Statute of Secrecy once we know what exactly you are talking about.” 

The French prince’s eyes narrowed in anger. He threw the parchment to the flunkie next to him and drew his wand. “You are un...”

Whatever he wanted to say was cut off by an overpowered expelliarmus from Harry. Technically a non-lethal spell, it threw the dauphin of Magical France 15 meters back. He bowled over two of his friends before he slammed into the wall with a sickening crack. At the time Harry wasn’t thinking of anything but making sure Hermione and the rest of his friends were safe. Later historians would refer to this moment as the opening shot or the first spell of the Revolutionary Wars. 

*****

A mudblood had dared to strike at their dauphin! Wands shot out of tailored duellist holsters into eager hands.

They were the flower of the French magical nobility, the Dauphin’s Chosen Companions, as they had been called at Beauxbatons, and their best friends. They might have looked like they spent more time on cosmetic charms than on combat training, but despite their age few were those who would match them in the duelling ring. 

Armed with spells not taught to anyone outside a few select noble families, armored with the best combat robes money could buy, and with dozens of duels under their belt, they couldn’t imagine losing to a rabble of semi-literate - they surely spoke no French - mudbloods, no matter their number.

They stood no chance. 

*****

Robert Smith was almost as fast as Harry was. That was one of the reasons Harry had chosen him as one of Hermione’s bodyguards. Technically, he was one of Harry’s bodyguards too, but everyone knew that Harry would act to protect Hermione first, before caring about himself. The other reason for his choice was that Robert didn’t let anything slow him down when it came to keeping his charges alive - no doubt, no thought was wasted on the consequences. And he was utterly ruthless - a bonus in Harry’s opinion, as he had stated to Robert before.

As soon as he saw Harry cast Robert had started to move forward. Unlike most others he had two wrist holsters - one, on his left wrist, for his wand, another, enchanted one, on his right wrist, for his other weapons. His muggle weapons. His enchanted improved muggle weapons. By the time he had reached Hermione she had already conjured a reinforced stone wall in front of her, wide enough to cut the delegation off from the British wizards and witches. A Shield Charm didn’t block the Unforgivables, but a stone wall did, conjured or not. And she had spent quite some time refining her conjuration skills so it could stand up to a number of spells. Robert moved to the left edge of the wall, crouching while he brought his favorite weapon to bear - a FN P90. Enchanted to be lighter and not suffer from recoil, with a bottomless magazine and internal cooling charms, he could fire it one-handed as easily as others fired a pistol. He trusted Dean to cover the right side. One French wizard already tried to go around the wall - they were faster than the British purebloods he had fought - and he put a burst of 5.7 x 28 mm bullets into his chest and face. 

Then the disillusioned MG-3 machine gun on the first floor opened up. From their elevated position the gunner could shoot over the wall into the purebloods. It was enchanted like Robert’s own weapon, with recoil and cooling charms and a bottomless ammo box enchanted with a Gemini Charm. The machine gunner was another muggleborn like Robert, driven away from the magical world to return to a world that had left him behind while he had been studying magic, and had ended up a soldier of fortune, the best job he could get with what amounted to an education that had stopped at elementary school. Thanks to the charms he wasn't limited to short controlled bursts, but could simply keep firing and walk the fire through the ranks of the French. Half of them died before they realized what was happening, torn up by a seemingly never ending hail of bullets. One tried to apparate, but that was blocked. Then the shields went up, stopping the bullets - for now. Robert knew that over time, even the strongest shield would not hold up against bullets designed to penetrate armor. They could simply wait… but they didn't have to.

Harry joined him at the edge of the now thicker wall - Hermione had already conjured another right behind it, and was in the process of conjuring a third. He didn’t say anything, simply leaned around the corner, and brought the shields down with a flick of his wand. The machine gun did the rest.

Robert was the first to break cover, weapon ready, to check for survivors, once the MG-3 had stopped firing. There weren’t any. He didn’t expect to find any - he wouldn’t have stopped firing in the machine gunner’s place either otherwise. Still, he did check for illusions before giving the ‘clear’ signal.

*****

Harry Potter felt like throwing up, but controlled himself. The sight of two dozen torn up, bleeding corpses on the ground brought back memories he had hoped to bury forever. Beside him, Hermione didn’t show any emotion - he realized she had retreated into her scientist persona, analyzing anything she could see without having to really see it. She was probably counting the bullet holes and trying to guess if the MG-3 needed some adjusting for those distances.

Both walked through the international portkey area, avoiding the spreading pools of blood on the floor pockmarked with bullet holes. At the wall in front of them they found the dauphin. Hermione crouched down and studied the dead prince. “I wonder if he died from the impact on the wall, or was killed by stray bullets afterwards,” she commented, brushing a lock of hair away from the corpse’s face, which had not been touched by spell or bullet and still wore a surprised expression.

“Does it matter?” Harry asked, trying to sound as detached as Hermione did.

“It matters for the record,” Hermione answered, in the same tone of voice she used when talking about extra-credit work in a class she already had an O for sure in.

“I think he might have died from the wounds he suffered from my spell, but was shot to death before that happened.”

Hermione nodded. “I agree.” Behind them wizards were checking the other bodies. One of them brought the parchment d’Orléans had to them. It had soaked up some blood, but only on the backside, and had been checked for spells.

Hermione read it through, and Harry could see her tense up slightly, even though she maintained a calm facade for the rest of their audience. “Inform the Prime Minister at once. Those idiots might try to obliviate him - they are citing our cooperation with him as a breach of the Statute of Secrecy.” Shaking her head, she looked at Harry then started towards her office.

Harry understood her without words, and was calling for take-out for four to be delivered to Hermione’s office while he followed her. It would be a long night.

*****

A day later the two were still in Hermione’s office. Pepper-Up Potions and cleaning charms hid the results of a sleepless night, but wouldn’t help forever. But by now the whole Wizarding Britain was in a state of alert, and they had a meeting scheduled with the Prime Minister to ‘coordinate their response’ to the ICW’s infractions.

Harry Potter dropped the special issue of the newspaper he had been reading, all centered on the ‘terrorist attack’ on the Prime Minister’s home, which was what the non-magical press was making of the attempt by the ICW to ‘question”’ the Prime Minister. Forewarned, his security detachment including two muggleborn wizards had managed to stop the ICW-delegates, but not as quickly or easily as the dauphin had been stopped inside the Ministry, and at least one of the attackers had escaped through apparition. MLE officers were looking for him, but no one thought they would succeed. 

Harry glanced over the speculation in the article, more to amuse himself than for any other reason. The fight had been too public to completely cover it up, so the press was told it had been a terrorist attack. Given their history, the IRA had some trouble explaining that they were not responsible, especially after their latest splinter cell had claimed responsibility. The Prime Minister also was already milking the whole incident for some political capital dealing with Northern Ireland. 

In contrast, the magical press was in an uproar. The Quibbler was talking about an invasion attempt by French Royalty, and drew parallels to the invasion in 1066. It wasn’t really helping to calm the waters. The Daily Prophet was focusing on the pureblood attack on the Ministry, and the effectiveness of the defenses, and - the newspaper had really gone overboard in trying to please the new regime - demanded the head of the people behind the attack. Teen Witch Weekly focused on Harry and Hermione fighting side by side and would probably try to analyze what Harry’s and Hermione’s spell choices said about their relationship. And there was a small mob in Diagon Alley, demanding the overthrow of the ‘pureblood-regime at the ICW’.

The coverage by the foreign press was different, unfortunately not in their favor. The French papers were frothing at the mouth at the ‘cowardly cruel murder of the noble crown prince of France’ at the hands ‘of a rabble of dirty muggles’, and were literally demanding the heads of Harry and Hermione. The Russian press was joining them in their ‘demand for justice’, but also wondering about the competence of the French delegation, to be overwhelmed by muggles. The Prussians were holding back, just reporting about an ‘incident that led to the death of the dauphin of Magical France’. The rest of the world hadn’t really an opinion yet, but that would change.

Hermione sighed. “It’s gonna be a war. They can’t let this go, and we can’t submit.”

Harry nodded. Once he would have offered to claim sole responsibility, and sacrifice himself for his friends, but he knew it wouldn’t help. The purebloods wanted everyone involved in the Revolution dead and the muggleborns crushed. And Hermione would kill him if he proposed to sacrifice himself.

“We need to prepare. We have not much time, and we’re currently wide open for anyone to enter, by broom, portkey or apparition. That has to change,” Hermione said. Harry nodded again. “But we still need to counter their accusations about breaking the Statute of Secrecy. And we need to find out who exactly is behind this. This wasn’t standard ICW procedure.” 

Harry agreed: “They actually did something, and very quickly too. Something’s not right.”

Hermione rubbed her temples. She probably felt a headache coming up.

*****

Antoine Malfoy was hiding his elation while talking to his esteemed colleagues in the ICW. The whole affair was coming along much better than expected. Not only was all of Magical France demanding the heads of the British mudbloods, but those animals had even managed to kill the dauphin! The Duc had other children, of course, but it was a first step, and for the crown prince to die so ingloriously, despite the attempts to paint him as overcome by treason and perfidy, did not help the royal family’s image. Maybe a few rumors about their blood having grown weak...

Outwardly he showed outrage and anger as he prepared his speech, in which he’d demand to change the mandate to investigate into one to punish Wizarding Britain’s current Ministry and all responsible for this ‘abhorrent crime’ and ‘blatant challenge to the authority of the ICW’.

It wouldn’t be long before wizards under his leadership would crush the mudbloods, restore purebloods in England, and raise his family’s influence even higher than it was. Who knew, ‘Duc Malfoy’ had a good ring to it…

******* **


	12. Mobilisations

**Chapter 12: Mobilisations**

“Put the book away,” Harry Potter said, frowning at Hermione. They were staying at Grimmauld Place, considered a more defensible location than their flat, until they were sure no one could find it even with help, willing or not, from the local authorities. It had been another overly long day dealing with the ‘ICW crisis’. That was the official term as long as there was still a slim hope it would be solved without further violence. Harry was certain it would end in a war though. As was Hermione. Which was why she was trying to both govern Wizarding Britain and research means to seal up their borders against intruders. “We’re not repeating 3rd year, dear.”

“We don’t have a time-turner, Harry. They still haven’t broken the loop they are locked in - another thing we need to work on!” Hermione responded, gripping the old tome she was holding tighter, as if she feared he’d try to snatch it out of her hands. To be honest, he had done it before. 

“Exactly, So, you can’t act as if you have one. Pepper-up potions only go so far, you need your rest, love.” Leaving aside that an exhausted Minister at the helm of the country would spell disaster once the war officially started, he couldn’t bear seeing Hermione run herself ragged again.

“I can’t rest! We need to find a way to block Apparition on a large scale! We got the Floo network cut off from the international network, and we’ve tweaked the portkey grid to prevent foreign portkeys from arriving, but the French still can apparate over the channel.” Hermione raised her chin and stared right at him. Harry was suddenly reminded of the time before their exams - any year. Hermione would have the same expression when talking about revising.

“To quote Ron, we don’t need to block Apparition, we only need to find a way to counter intruders using it. And since no one ever has found a way to block Apparition for a whole country, I am not sure if that’s even possible.” Harry briefly was distracted by the thought of his old friend’s reaction to the current crisis. Ron was enraged at the attack, and had thrown himself into his training with a vengeance. Even or especially Hermione had been baffled at that - Ron, the military scholar.

“It just means it hasn’t been found yet. And there have been two cases where a whole country has been blocked - San Marino in 1654, and the Vatican in 1911. Granted, those were just standard Anti-Apparition wards, and had to powered by a dark ritual in San Marino’s case, but technically, entire countries have been blocked.” Hermione lectured.

“The whole Department of Mysteries is working on it Hermione. If the Unmentionables can’t find a solution I doubt you can find a way in your spare time.” To be honest, he had doubts she would not manage. She had done such feats before, but at a price.

“Unspeakables, Harry!” Hermione corrected him, but she was grinning. “And the department has lost a number of their top researchers.” Neither she nor Harry mentioned how that had happened. There had been less pureblood purists in that department, but the ones they had found had been… really bad. If the Prime Minister knew what had been done at the ‘muggle experimentation lab’ before they had closed it down and filled it with concrete…

“Besides, aren’t tests for the Apparition detection grid coming along nicely? Last I heard they expect field testing to begin in a few days.” Between pushing the war budget - sorry, crisis budget - through and dealing with a number of interview requests by the international press, Harry had tried to keep up with the latest developments, but even with his influence, it had taken a lot of work to get the money for a military worth its name. Even muggleborns didn’t understand that Aurors and hit-wizards were not soldiers, but police officers. Some even thought hit-wizards were assassins… Hogwarts hadn’t really taught them anything about the wizarding world. In any case, they needed soldiers, not policemen, and training and equipping them cost money.

“They are still struggling with the best way to power a grid that covers most of of south-eastern England. All the solutions offered so far are… unacceptable,” Hermione said, frowning.

Neither Harry nor Hermione were condoning human sacrifices. Harry didn’t want to consider what would happen should they find themselves in desperate need, and with some prisoners that would be executed anyway, but he more than suspected that Hermione already had thought of that, and planned it out. She was more ruthless than he was - part of the reason that she was the Minister for Magic, and he was the Chief Warlock.

“They’ll manage. You don’t have to micromanage, Hermione. We can’t afford for you to exhaust yourself like that. Things will only get worse, and you’ll have to be on top of your game. I can’t stand to see you burn yourself out!” Harry was relieved to see that the last line made Hermione’s expression, which had steadily grown more stubborn, relax again.

She wasn’t surrendering her book yet, though. “And what about that training you signed up? Combined Arms Fighting, or what Ron’s calling it?” A slight peeve that her proposal to name the training with non-magical special forces ‘Special and Magical training’ had been shot down by everyone else was still noticeable. Harry hadn’t even tried to make her understand that with the military’s love for acronyms, no one would be happy to take a ‘Spam’ course. Or, even worse, an 'S&M' course.

Although he was sounding slightly defensive when he explained: “It’s just so I don’t cause a problem should we get attacked again because I don’t know the tactics that will be used.”

“Who’s ‘we’, Harry? Britain or us two?” 

Uh oh… he had entered Hermione’s ‘Verbal Minefield’, as Ron had called it after his latest session. It would be hard to get out of this without causing an explosion. 

“I mean us two. The purebloods will try to take us out, thinking that will finish Britain.” They might even be correct - should both of them die, Wizarding Britain would probably fall to pieces.

  
“And why wasn’t I signed up for the course too then?” Hermione sounded calm and friendly, but she had put her book down, and he could see her ready to stand up.

“Ah…”

“Harry James Potter! If this is another attempt to ‘keep me safe’ while you plan to fight a whole war by yourself…” And he had blown it. He should have known better - one of Hermione’s greatest fears was that he would try to sacrifice himself for everyone again, leaving her alone. Again. He barely noticed how Hermione cast privacy wards so the security team guarding Grimmauld Place would not overhear them before she started to lay into him, her words tinged with her fears of losing him.

“What are you thinking? You’re the Chief Warlock now, not some hotshot low-level Auror on a solo-crusade! The whole idea is to rely on lots of soldiers, not a few powerful wizards! We can’t afford to lose you! I can’t lose you!” Tears were visible in her eyes now.

“I know, I know… but I might be needed. Sometime, for a special task you can’t do with conventional weapons. And I need to be ready for that.”

“What special task? Is some idiot planning to make you duel the French Duc?” Then he saw her eyes widen. “Oh Merlin! Are they planning to send Dementors at us?”

“We don’t know, but Ron said it would be a good way to counter troops of mostly non-magical soldiers - the wizards with them can’t keep many Dementors at bay, so they’d have to retreat.” Ron had called it ‘falling back’, of course.

Hermione sat down, hunching over. “Bloody Dementors. Do the French even have them?”

Harry shook his head. “We don’t know. Fleur might know, but…”

Hermione winced. “We don’t know where her family is standing on the current problems with Magical France, and Ron’s not subtle enough to find out without causing a scene.” Percy would be subtle, but they didn’t know if he and Bill were still at odds.

“Promise me that you’ll not run off without a team to watch your back, even if a hundred Dementors are boring down on London! They could simply use them as bait for a trap.” Hermione stared at him, pleadingly.

“I promise.”

“And we’ll have to teach - have people teach - as many of us how to cast a corporal Patronus as possible. And keep people on standby to react to Dementor intrusions. Merlin, we need a way to detect them, or they could be kissing people left and right without anyone knowing!” 

Harry knew that her mind was already racing, picking possible teachers, and formulating a memo to the DoM, and Azkaban’s warden. And in the back of her mind she probably had filed a plan to send Dementors against the French. Just in case.

“You won’t be going though,” Harry stated. While Hermione was a powerful witch, her Patronus wouldn’t drive 100 dementors away. There was no need for her to risk herself.

He could see her pout. “Fine. But I get the special training too. Just in case it’s needed. And under no circumstances will you be fighting when someone else could do it.“

“Fine.” He hated risking other people’s life without doing anything himself, but he hated hurting Hermione even more.

Sighing, she leaned into him and moved to canceled the privacy charms. He interrupted her by grabbing her hand. When she turned her head to look at him, a question on her lips, he leaned forward and answered her with a kiss.

*****

Antoine Malfoy smiled while row after row of French Aurors in dress robes passed the stands he was on, next to the Duc d’Orléans. He was carefully not smiling too much though, it wouldn’t do to give the impression that he was as happy as he was seeing the best of the French forces parading before him, given the death of the Duc’s heir. The Duc and his whole family were wearing black to signal they were mourning, though Malfoy was quite certain that the younger siblings of the dead dauphin were privately glad about the demise of the heir as well - they were one step closer to the throne now. And with a war all but inevitable - he doubted the British would surrender and deliver the Mudblood Minister and her Chief Warlock to them for trial and execution - there would be numerous occasions for more convenient deaths. Charles d’Orléans, the late dauphin’s younger brother, was an Auror Captain, and would be leading a team into battle soon. Leaders were always at risk during battles. Antoine was privately wondering if the new dauphin had made sure that his Aurors were loyal to him, and none of them ready to curse him in the back in the middle of a fight. If they were, there were still ways to force them…

To think, the British even had asked the ICW if someone had impersonated or imperiused their delegation! That had almost swayed the vote by itself. If not for the Prussians, they might even have gotten a resolution for a mandatory punishing action by the whole ICW, but the damned Germans had muddled the water, separating the threat against the Statute of Secrecy from the attack on the delegation. It had been a sly move too, letting France and Russia take actions ‘appropriate to take control of Wizarding Britain’ while keeping the rest of the countries from getting involved.

He glanced to the side, studying Marie d’Orléans, the daughter of the Duc. Quite a beauty. He had heard that she had wanted to join the Aurors herself, to avenge her brother, but the Duc had, of course, denied her. She was a good duellist and a professional broom racer, but not a trained Auror. She would have known that, Antoine thought, and probably only had asked to join as a gesture to gain political capital in case the next of her brothers died. His eldest son was smitten with the girl, Antoine knew, but he’d not allow any relationship until he was certain she could be controlled. It wouldn’t do to have an outsider rule the Malfoys.

The last of the Aurors passed the stands with their wands raised, and the Duc’s family and his entourage sat down while the Duc started his speech. Antoine knew it already, having gotten a copy from the writer. It heavily featured revenge and their sacred duty to stop the British mudbloods before they tried to massacre more innocent magicals and exposed their world to the muggle murderers. Antoine thought it was fine, though his darling daughter Antoinette, who had looked it over when she had visited him in his office, felt it might alienate their own mudbloods. He had scoffed at that - part of the reason for this war was to show the mudbloods what happened if they tried to overturn the natural order. It wasn’t as if they needed the mudbloods, not with the Russians at their side.

He frowned slightly, That hadn’t gone perfectly according to plan. He had hoped the Russians would send part of their standing force of war wizards, enough to make a difference, but not enough so they could claim a lot of the glory of beating the British. Sadly, the Russians had insisted on not sending any troops before their whole expeditionary corps was ready. They wanted an ‘overwhelming force’ for the invasion, and mobilizing their reserve took some time. Russians! They were still not quite as organized as modern magical nations. But they’d make good curse fodder, provided France could keep overall command. That would be the task of Guillaume Dubois. General Dubois, now. A veteran of the Grindelwald War, he was used to working with the Russians, and should ensure France’s primacy. If not… there were other leaders willing to replace him.

While they were waiting for the Russians to get ready, ‘scouting actions’ would be conducted on the ‘front’. Antoine doubted they’d amount to much - the British mudbloods were not that weak - but they should throw them into confusion, and split their forces up. They would provide an outlet for the younger, hot-blooded Aurors to gain experience at least.

The Duc finished his speech, and the assembled crowd shouted and yelled their agreement. If any British had been there they’d been torn to pieces. Most of the entourage was yelling too, despite the loss of dignity. Antoine glanced over at one of the few who was not shouting for blood - Marcel Delacour. Old blood, but he had no male heir, so his title would soon pass to a cadet branch. A good thing, given that his eldest daughter had married an English blood traitor who worked for the goblin vermin. That had hurt her father’s career even before the massacre, now it was all but destroyed. Only old loyalties kept the man in the Ministry, even though he had no real office anymore. He was still a potential problem - but also an opportunity. His youngest daughter was currently at Beauxbatons. She would be quite the leverage on her father - or her sister. And she was quite pretty too, as veelas were. His younger son had remarked upon that.

*****

The Prime Minister’s office was busy - so busy that those not in the know about the Magical World were certain that a major scandal was about to be exposed. That, or a major terrorist threat, given the number of meetings with special forces. The hiring of more officers for customs and border patrols was buried under budget wrangling, and escaped the notice of most people. But thanks to this, wizards now were stationed at the major ports and airports and the Chunnel, and they had several combined arms teams ready for deployment by teleportation, no, they called it Apparition, with more in training. On the military front of the coming war, things were looking up. 

Diplomatically, he hadn’t made any headway though - there seemed to be no safe way to sound out his fellow leaders from the other NATO states  without running the risk of their magicals noticing it and intervening.  A summit meeting would be best, but he hadn’t found a pretext yet to call for such a summit. 

The Prime Minister suddenly had a thought. Maybe a sudden crisis… corruption revealed inside NATO. Too big… but a manufactured diplomatic incident, big enough for him to request a personal meeting with say the president of France? That had potential. He’d pass that on to SIS, not in writing of course. 

At least the magical diplomats had managed to keep the rest of the magical world from declaring war on Britain, or so he heard. Still, they were facing the French and Russians, and according to his officers, there had been air-to-air actions over the channel already - on brooms! That sounded far less serious than it was. Apparently, normal gunners couldn’t spot the brooms without a wizard removing concealing charms, and to do that, one had to get close. Helicopters would have been perfect to intercept the brooms, but they hadn’t read in any of their pilots yet, nor prepared a way to hide their sorties from the population. The solution they had come up with reminded him of the start of military aviation in World War I: A light machine gunner riding behind a magical on the same broom. Apparently, flying carpets had been outlawed for years in Britain, due to lobbying from broom manufacturers, so no one had much experience with flying one. 

He shook his head. The magical world was not so different when it came to corruption by the industry, it seemed. At least it had worked, to a point - they had stopped the broom intrusions, but at least two of the French broom riders had gotten away, and so the enemy knew what they were doing. That was a bad thing. But having them fly over England would have been worse.

*****

Luna Lovegood put her pen down and blew over the paper - out of habit, not that she really needed to, unlike with quills. Another lead article for The Quibbler was almost done. This one dealt with the conspiracy against Britain at the ICW. Luna hesitated, closing her eyes. Should she mention that the war was just a pretext for a powergrab by a pureblood family in France? It sounded not entirely true to her gut feeling, but not entirely false either. She decided to put it in. Her father always had said some truth was better than none at all. 

She wished she could look at the ICW herself, and see who was plagued by Wrackspurts, who was suffering from Nargles, and who was attracting the … Others. But she felt she would not be received well at the ICW, given she was one of the best friends of Harry and Hermione. Until Ron had gotten over his Wrackspurt problem, she had been their best friend, period. But she didn’t begrudge Ron’s return - he was needed, both for the war, and for the two. And he had needed to be needed, to grow into the man she had seen already.

It was curious though. While the number of countries she could visit without fearing to get arrested shrank - Hermione kept a list updated and forwarded to her, she really was a good friend, even if she tended to worry too much - the list of people receiving The Quibbler in foreign countries grew. She doubted the sudden increase in interest was due to their articles on undiscovered animals, so it was probably her articles covering the life in Britain - even though those articles often were far less entertaining than the latest news on snorkacks. But she was happy that the other wizarding newspapers and magazines who featured articles written by her only wanted the boring ones - it would make certain that The Quibbler remained the premier magazine for naturalists!

Though she still didn’t know why, after her latest issue covering new crumple-horned snorkack sightings in Sweden, France had demanded to send an ICW inspection team to Sweden. It sounded like a heavy Wrackspurt infection. Hermione had asked her to write about snorkacks in America, ‘to test a hypothesis’, but Luna had of course refused - there were no snorkacks in America!

*****

Marie d’Orléans was shaking with rage, staring at the white cliffs of Dover. First her brother, now her best friend, murdered by the English! Susanne Marceau had been her best friend since they entered Beauxbatons together, and they had stayed friends despite their competitive natures when they became broom racers. And unlike Marie herself, blocked by her father, Susanne had managed to get recruited as a broom flyer by the French forces, eager to avenge her first crush. And now she was dead. Shot down by English animals by means unknown. Marie wasn’t certain what exactly had happened, the sole survivor of the group had been trembling, and frantic, and stammered about invisible dragons. As if the magic-resistant dragons could be disillusioned!

She abruptly turned on her heels, and stalked over to the tents housing the Healers of the broom forces. She’d find out what killed her best friend, no matter what. And she’d have her revenge.

*****

Ron Weasley was happy. Very happy. His first field test of the ‘Anglia II’ had worked out very well. An invisible, flying FV-432 was perfect for dealing with enemy brooms, especially with a machine gun with the standard charms - cooling, bottomless ammo box with a repeated gemino charm, and recoilless charm - mounted on it. His father even had been enthusiastic to enchant another vehicle. After the success of this, perhaps, he’d get to enchant a more modern APC. Maybe a Warrior - those should be able to deal with anything, even dragons.

Ron though would be returning to base, and prepare for his next outing. He still had a lot to learn about so many topics. But he’d take his mates out for a drink, to celebrate their victory. The French hadn’t known what hit them when the machine gun had started to tear into them.

And best of all - they had been killed from so far away, he’d not see their dying faces in his nightmares.

** ***** **


	13. Enemies and Allies

**Chapter 13: Enemies and Allies**

“Here.” Harry Potter offered a can of diet coke to Hermione.

The witch looked up from her book - a volume from the Black family library about detection and scrying spells - and blinked. “I didn’t know we had soft drinks here.” Here being No. 12, Grimmauld Place, where they had been living for the last few weeks, since the fight with the French delegation.

Harry shrugged. “Since we started staying here so you could check the library for some light reading the elves have restocked the pantry.” His sarcasm was light and teasing - it was mostly security concerns that made them live here, saving their ‘real flat’ as a bolthole, with a vanishing cabinet set up to connect it to Grimmauld Place. “It’s not as if there’s a danger of shocking pureblood visitors with such radical muggle things like cans of soft drinks anymore.”

Hermione nodded, popped her can open and gulped half of it down. “Ah… beats pumpkin juice any day of the week.”

“You’re only saying that because of the caffeine,” Harry claimed while sitting down next to her on the couch.

“And the lack of sugar.”

Harry didn’t comment on that - Hermione’s parents and their dentistry-fueled habits was not a topic to tease Hermione about.

“Found anything in this book?” He knew she didn’t have - or she’d be scribbling notes all over the place while being oblivious to the world.

Hermione shook her head, her mane of thick curls briefly obscuring her face. “No. Just some treatise about scrying and how to avoid being scryed on. Quite obsolete since wards against it were developed in 1750.” She closed the book, slowly and carefully, it was 400 years old after all.

“Rumor is you wrecked your office with accidental magic when you heard about Charlie’s return from Romania.”

Hermione huffed. “I do not lose control that easily. I would have liked to wreck him ‘accidentally’ though - what was the man thinking, bringing a dragon with him when he returned? I do hope Molly’s sending him a few howlers over that.”

“He was stealing a dragon according to the Romanians.”

“Technically, they acquired it from illegal sources in Britain. They never got a permit to take it out of the country, so… it’s not stealing.” Hermione sounded prim and proper, as if she was correcting an imprecise wording in one of his essays back at school.

“That’s our official stance?”

“Officially we’re looking into the whole affair, and will investigate all claims thoroughly,” Hermione answered, kicking her shoes off and pulling her feet up on the couch, scooting closer to Harry.

“Not that it matters - Romania joined Russia and France for their ICW-sanctioned ‘policing action’. As did most of Eastern Europe. The Poles are dragging their feet, but that’s because they fear that the Prussians could attempt to use the opportunity to settle a few scores, so they do not want to send out troops yet that they might need soon at home. Their Ministry is under Russia’s thumb though, so they’ll not hold out much longer.” He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer.

“Any chance the Prussians will do that?”

“I’ve got no idea. They’ve been acting neutral, but rumor is that the Prussian Ministry is torn up between the ICW-appeasers and those who still want to get even for the defeat of Grindelwald. In addition to that a lot of muggleborns from the rest of Germany have emigrated to Prussia over the last decades, and according to some newspapers they are pushing to support us.”

“How badly will it hurt us on the diplomatic front if Grindelwald’s men support us?” Hermione bit her lower lip.

“Hard to say. The main issue for the countries outside Europe is the Statute of Secrecy. The Latin Americans are particularly paranoid about that, as are the nations in the Middle East. Even the Ottoman Empire.” Harry finished his can, threw it in the air and wandlessly vanished it before it hit the floor.

“That’s no surprise. The Latin American Wizards were among those who were hit the hardest by the Inquisition. After the Statute of Secrecy went into effect they managed to change the documents and make it appear as if it had been aimed at the so-called ‘hidden jews’ after the Reconquista. The mundane Reconquista, I mean. At that time though the majority of the Spanish wizards had already been driven out of the country, and the Inquisition wasn’t easily dealt with for a long time, so they couldn’t return. Unlike the Italians though they could flee to the Americas. But they kept their fear of discovery. Given the recent surge in religious fundamentalism it’s no wonder the Wizards in Arab countries are very concerned about the Statute of Secrecy as well. Saudi Arabia still has the death penalty for witchcraft, after all.” Hermione was going into lecture mode even as Harry pulled her into his lap. For a short moment both were back at Hogwarts.

Harry interrupted her with a kiss, and continued himself. “The Chinese wizards are also nervous about getting discovered - they haven’t forgotten what the communists did to ‘dissidents’, and the recent massacre of students... “

Hermione nodded. “Africa’s a non-issue.” Neither she nor Harry wanted to dwell on the reasons for that - Britain could be the second victim of an ICW mandated Punishing Expedition for breaking the Statute of Secrecy. “Australia?”

“They haven’t said anything. As usual.” Not that anyone would have expected the aborigines to care about anything outside their continent. It was a miracle the muggleborns among Australia’s non-native population were allowed to move to New Zealand, and didn’t simply vanish anymore. Especially considering the horrible outcome of Wizarding Britain’s attempt to conquer the continent in the 19th century. “And the North American countries are busy with their own wars, even if all are currently cold.”

“So… as long as we can show that we are keeping the Statute of Secrecy, we do not have to worry about facing ancient Mayan blood magic rituals, unleashed genies, magical plagues from Sumer and Egypt and ghost dances that could control volcanos?”

“Correct. We only have to face the combined might of Magical France and Russia, and their lackeys.” Harry grinned widely. “We’ve faced worse odds.”

“That we did.” Hermione matched his grin. The fake levity didn’t last, and both grew serious even though Hermione kept her place in his lap, head resting on his chest. “I’ve got some good news though: The British centaurs formally allied themselves with us, same as the merpeople.”

Harry winced where Hermione couldn’t see it. “That means Magical Greece won’t fight us - they quite revere the centaurs.” He did not mention that Magical Greece hadn’t fought anyone ever since they broke free from the Ottoman Empire, which happened mostly thanks to support from the rest of Magical Europe. They had not mattered in the greater picture ever since Atlantis was sunk.

Hermione must have somehow sensed his lack of enthusiasm. “I know they’re not really worth much in a battle - there’s a reason that bows are not used anymore by humans - but their seers could be very helpful… huh?” She blinked with surprise when Harry gripped her shoulders and pulled her around, to stare into her face.

“What did I hear? Hermione Granger calling divination useful?” Harry was genuinely surprised even though he hammed it up.

Hermione pouted. “Centaur seers have a long and well-documented history of providing insight and information thanks to their star gazing. It is said that Hogwarts started astronomy classes in an attempt to unlock their secrets.” Harry raised his eyebrows at her, and she winced. “Alright… I am just happy that the magical races acknowledge what we are doing for them. Though given our lack of progress on wide-scale detection spells we might as well ask centaur seers about enemy movements.”

Harry grinned. “True. Though the apparition detection is coming along nicely. Ron’s having trouble with the broom scouts though - turns out his flying tanks are not fast enough to effectively react to lots of brooms that are spread out and disillusioned.”

“Flying APCs, not tanks,” Hermione corrected him. “We could ask the merpeople, maybe they can scout the channel. Most broom fliers fly rather low compared to aircraft. I don’t know if they can detect fliers at all though - we know so little about magical races!”

Harry nodded. “I’ll pass it along. Ron was muttering about mines and merpeople, but I doubt our enemies have a magical navy, Durmstrang’s ship notwithstanding. What about the goblins?”

“They are, as you’d say, dragging their feet. Even though we offer them equality before the law and an end to the discrimination, they have been very cautious in responding. Too cautious, I think, even counting their interests in the other countries.” Hermione looked straight into his eyes.

“I know they are still mad about our little escapade…” Harry grinned, remembering their escape on the back of a dragon. “But you think it’s more than that?”

Hermione nodded. “They are extremely self-serving. I think they would fare better in the long run if they allied themselves with us, but… they can be bought, and betrayal is possible, as we found out. And since they still control our gold, they have a lot of leverage. If we start to move our gold out, they would likely notice. And we cannot simply switch to the British pound, even without the mess the purebloods made out of our economy.”

Harry knew that switching to money that wasn’t based on real metal and charmed to prevent counterfeiting was a very difficult task, to say the least. Hermione thought one could do it switching all transactions to electronic or ‘quasi-electronic’ aka magical ones, but Harry knew that there was no chance at all that it would be accepted. Not even the muggles would accept such a radical proposal. As it was they were still working on an emergency plan to distribute alternate currency in case the goblins shut down the gold supply.

He nodded. “So, what did you do?” He knew the witch better than anyone else.

Hermione bit her lip. “It’s just insurance… I don’t plan on using it, but… I’ve had a few vaults opened under the name of muggleborns, and filled them with shaped charges and a mixture of other explosives.”

“You plan to blow them and our gold up?”

Hermione nodded. “As a last resort. I thought about using poison gas, but as a race of miners they have to be prepared for such. But shaped charges to blow through the ceilings and walls, and then FAE bombs… at the very least it should weaken them enough for conventional soldiers to deal with them.”

Harry was once again reminded just how ruthless and scary the love of his life could be. He pulled her into a hug, both of them needed one.

Hermione was silent for a few minutes, before continuing: “With the war we’re in, less werewolves and vampires are moving to Britain than expected when we removed the discriminatory laws, but those who do seem eager to fight. Though they also are a security risk - Voldemort had both among his followers, and since the death of Remus we lack any trustworthy contact to the werewolves.“ And they never had one trustworthy contact among the vampires. “But it helps us diplomatically. While most countries discriminate against most magical races, many of them have exceptions for one or another magical race. Romania took a lot of pressure from Russia to join their alliance, their vampires and veela opposed it fiercely.”

Harry agreed. “And we can use any help.”

“I’d say we need every little bit of help.”

Harry nodded, and hugged her again. They remained silent for a few minutes, just enjoying each other’s closeness.

“You know, last I heard your crazy plan will be implemented soon.”

“It’s not crazy, Harry. It’s the easiest way to both keep the Statute of Secrecy intact and get us the soldiers we need.”

“If by ‘keep’ you mean ‘bend until it should be broken’, then I agree. And I can only shake my head at the irony of it - after all a marriage law started all of this.” He chuckled.

“It’s strictly voluntary, Harry. And I checked the books - the magical world has no concept of an illegal marriage of convenience. As long as it’s formally correct it’s a valid marriage.” Hermione sniffed.

“Of course - most of the pureblood marriages were marriages of convenience by our standards.”

“Their loss, Harry.”

*****

“What’s the latest news of the wizards?” The Prime Minister was sounding slightly annoyed - the latest grilling by members of the parliament who wanted to know the reasons for some budget changes and the increased secrecy in some military bases had been a tad tiresome.

His Secretary of State in the Ministry of Defense did not look impressed though - they had all gone through such in their political career. “We’ve sent most of the squibs and other relatives to wizards who are serving in our armed forces to train with magicals now. It’ll take a while until all are ready for action, but they are coming along nicely. A number have seen action over the channel already.”

“Still too few. What about Minister Granger’s latest proposal to increase the numbers of soldiers in our ranks that can be told about magic without the rest of the Magical World going on a genocidal crusade?” It was hard to say what rankled the Prime Minister the most - treating a girl barely into her 20s as a minister, the threat of facing a whole world of wizards trying to wipe out his country for knowing about them, or that rather … unorthodox… proposal by Minister Granger. If the press ever got wind about this, they’d have a field day.

“I have discussed it with the commander of the 22 Special Air Service Regiment, and he is cautiously optimistic that the men will understand. He does expect the ribbing about the whole affair to go on for years though.”

The Prime Minister sighed. “It does seem to be the best loophole to avoid breaking the Statute of Secrecy while getting our best soldiers ready for action against magicals. Go ahead then.” Fortunately, it would never be entered in the official history of the regiment. “Shouldn’t we use more of our forces though?”

“The soldiers will still need training. As do the magicals who will operate with them. Most of the British wizards, while experienced in combat with magicals, have no military experience, and action movies make for a poor substitute. And those who come from pureblood families…”

“We have those?”

“Yes, Sir. One of their best is actually a pureblood. He was quite ignorant at the start - his first training exercise got his whole squad ‘killed’ by friendly fire - but he adapted very fast. All the officers I talked with say he’s a natural.”

“Ah, that one.” Ronald Weasley - he was the closest friend of both the Minister for Magic and the Chief Warlock. The Prime Minister only hoped the rumors of a past ménage à trois and other sordid relationships were just that, rumors. Then again, if those were not just rumors, that would be valuable leverage just in case there was a difference of opinion about the future relationship between Wizarding Britain and the United Kingdom, once this crisis was over.

“Yes, Sir. As I was saying - our uninformed soldiers need training to face magical foes. Even our best do not fare well in their first exercises. It’s one thing to hear about, ah, magic, and another to see it in action. And as I said before, our wizards need training too, to work effectively with our soldiers.”

“I see.” He didn’t like it, not at all. But having troops trained to fight magicals was better than having them develop an even bigger dependency on magicals. He didn’t want his soldiers to become pawns for the magicals in their war. On the other hand, having magicals integrated in his special forces… that would make them more loyal to the United Kingdom, instead of the magical world.

The Prime Minister nodded. “How are the preparations for the summit coming along?”

“All on schedule, Sir.”

Which meant it would still take months. No wonder, without a known crisis to speed things along, there was no urgency to speed things along in the other countries.

*****

Tsar Cyril Dmitrovich Romanov looked at the War Wizards exercising outside his palace. They performed well, of course. Some, like their commander, Aleksandr Ivanowich Azarov, were veterans of the war against Grindelwald even. All of them were experienced though, and well-trained. His country had not gone soft, unlike so many others, in the decades since that war. He had scoffed at the latest letters from France, urging him to hasten his preparations. As if Russian War Wizards would dance to the tune of the French! His forces would attack when they were ready, not a day earlier. Impatience got people killed in war, that lesson Russia had paid a heavy price to learn, decades ago.

*****

“Left, left! We need more distance!” Ron was not quite shouting - he had learned how to use the intercom gear - but he was raising his voice. Anyone would, in their situation. Next to him the machine gunner was raking the flock of harpies that their wards had revealed with sustained fire. No more ‘short, controlled bursts’ there. A part of Ron’s mind made a note to mention the dangers of getting too used to enchanted weapons to the brass at the base even while he pulled his wand and conjured a spray of water to the right side of the flying APC. No suspicious splashes, so it seemed that this side was still clear.

He should have expected this - things had been too easy for some days now, so the enemy was bound to adapt their tactics. No more brooms trying to get close and getting shot down. No, from what he could tell, their broom riders now summoned animals, disillusioned them, and then sent them off. And with the range of the anti-disillusion wards on the vehicles so damn short, the last engagement had been quite closer than he liked. At least the animals were still slower than the APC, even though racing brooms could outrun the APC - another nasty surprise for the flying tanks.

They would have to adapt now. No more solo patrols. Maybe a few scouts, covered at range by others. Or a formation where each vehicle covered the other, like a defensive ring… maybe he should look into the tactics of the 8th Air Force, back when they had no fighter escorts. Hey, that spray had shown something. “Enemy 2 O’clock low!” he barked, and fired a concussion blast in that direction. Two of his squad mates popped up in the main hatch and started firing their assault rifles at the now revealed harpies. Two of the beasts tumbled down, screeching and bleeding, another crashed into the APC’s front, the fourth though almost took his head off with her claws, only his quick reaction and his helmet saved his scalp. Jones, the machine gunner, took the harpy down as she turned around for another attempt.

How were they even detecting them? The APC was invisible too.. damn, those bird creatures probably had some way to see through that. They really needed some way to counter them… maybe magically enhancing radar would help? The APC tilted and flew lower, so the gunner and the riflemen had a better field of fire against their pursuers. A few minutes later the harpies finally were dead or gone. Ron already was making notes to handle such an assault better next time. It galled him that the wizard who had sent the harpies at him had managed to escape.

*****

Marie d’Orléans was seething. Her plan should have worked, but that flying broom killing monstrosity had proven too nimble and its skin too tough. She had seen it all, under her cloak of invisibility - a larger version, specially made for broom riders according to her orders - while directing her summoned harpies. But the murderers of her dearest Susanne had escaped justice again. Worse though - with such a setback, she’d have a tougher time pushing her plans through, no matter how sound they were. At least the officers were forced to listen to the daughter of the Duc, and given the losses taken before, had no arguments to oppose her. Malfoy though was sure to try to portray her as a girl playing at war - again. She’d prove him wrong. She’d avenge Susanne, coute que coute!

*****

Fleur Weasley was sitting in the sand outside Shell Cottage, staring at the sky and the sea. As if to mock her own, dark mood, the sky was clear, bright and blue over a darker ocean. Inside the cottage behind the young veela her husband, Bill, and his brother, Percy, were talking. She had excused herself, stating she needed air since she felt a bit ill at ease. A transparent excuse to escape the discussion that oh so carefully avoided politics and the elephant in the room: Her own allegiance.

Percy Weasley had come to sound her out, that much everyone knew. And Percy knew that she knew. Fleur was a bit vexed that neither Harry nor Hermione had come - but it was mostly vanity. Percy was family, after all, and a rising star in the Ministry. Some even called him - behind his back, and in whispers - the last hope of the purebloods. He had come a long way from the prefect prick, as the twins called him once, back before…

Fleur sighed, and suppressed the memories. One war barely over, and now another was starting. A more terrifying war than she had imagined, seeing as half of Magical Europe seemed bent on attacking Wizarding Britain. That wasn’t the real problem though - and wasn’t that a sign how bad her own problem was? The problem was that among Britain’s enemies was France, her home country. Her family’s country. Would any of her cousins be among the attackers? Thank the goddess that Gabrielle was still too young to fight! Her father was working at the Ministry, too important for the frontlines. No one would expect her mother to fight, she was ‘too veela’ according to some.

Both her British family and her French family would be, had to be wondering which side Fleur would pick in the conflict. The Weasleys, no surprise there, had jumped into the war with both feets - and without their heads, or so Fleur would have joked if the situation had been less serious. Ron had joined the military, as she understood, George was working with Arthur on enchanting weapons, Ginny was training as a volunteer with what would have been the Aurors before the revolution, Percy was working at the Ministry, Charlie was busy setting up the new British dragon sanctuary - population: 1 Norwegian Ridgeback - and Bill… Bill was hoping his wife would decide what they would do.

It all hinged on her, she knew. Bill wouldn’t fight if she would not fight. And Fleur didn’t know what to do. She felt torn between her families, torn between her countries, torn between her love for Gabrielle and her parents, and her love for Bill and his family. And her family was no help - neither of her families. The letters from her father and mother, back when they were still being delivered, were avoiding the matter of politics but clearly hinted at her having to decide for herself, and that they’d love her no matter what she decided. But what mattered that if she would hate herself for her decision? Fleur pulled her knees up, dropped her head on them, and cried until she felt an arm wrap around her shoulders, and a man sit down next to her. Bill. Percy must have gone then.

He didn’t say a word. He wouldn’t say a word, wouldn’t push her. Would leave all to her. She simply cried harder.

*****

Antoine Malfoy felt like laughing loud when he arrived through the floo in his home. After weeks, the Russians were finally ready, their famous War Wizards staging in Western France. He was a bit put out that his plans for the war had not been implemented - the Russians had insisted on simply overwhelming the British with numbers. It was simple, yet cunning. After killing their pureblood population the English had not enough wizards left to defend their country, not when they would strike all key locations at once. Best of all, the Russians would be the first wave in most locations, taking the worst losses!

He smiled, and raised the glass his elf had filled for him - tomorrow, Wizarding Britain’s most important locations, their Ministry, Diagon Alley and Hogwarts, would burn!

*****


	14. Invasion

**Chapter 14: Invasion**

The old castle looked impressive, especially in the dimming light of the evening. Aleksandr Ivanowich Azarov had seen a lot in the 90 years of his life, and even he had to admit that Hogwarts was a sight to behold. Even more so when he took the wards into account that surrounded the massive walls. No wonder the castle had withstood both Voldemort and Grindelwald. And yet it would fall - to the same people who had crushed Grindelwald’s vaunted wizards under their heels, the War Wizards of Magical Russia. True, they had some allies with them, French, some Bulgarians and Romanians and even some Hungarians, but the battle would be decided by his War Wizards. Assaulting a castle that old, and that warded, was not a task to be left to a bunch of wizards who were trained to keep the peace and arrest petty criminals, and such people made up the bulk of the auxiliaries.

Aleksandar would have sent all of the others to take Hogsmeade, but the French were insisting on taking part in the attack on Hogwarts itself. He was sorely tempted to let them get killed to draw out the defenders, but decided against it. The French had sent part of the Duc’s Guard with him, and those were good wizards. Not as skilled in open warfare as the Russians - but then, who was? - but they were led by Marcel Marat, a veteran from the Grindelwald War, and would be very effective once they were inside the castle, where the fighting would turn into duels and skirmishes.

Even without the forces that would take and hold Hogsmeade they had more than enough wizards to overwhelm the defenders. Aleksandar grinned. Bringing in so many wizards undetected had been a challenge, but they had managed. It had been quite tight, but the Ship of Durmstrang had deposited them all on the shores of a Scottish lake. The French had pressed for a landing on the shores of Black Lake itself, right on Hogwarts’ borders, ready to take the castle by surprise, but Aleksandar had scoffed at that. It was a typical French plan - brave, but reckless. If the British had warded the lake then the attempt could wreck the ship, leaving any survivors stranded. There was no need to take such a risk if you could simply land somewhere deserted, and mass your forces for a surprise assault inside the Forbidden Forest, without the dangers and chaos of a contested landing. The old wizard preferred to fight his battles with as much control and preparation as possible. Incidentally, it seemed as if the lake had not been warded.

Aleksandar looked over at his Curse-Breakers. Once he gave the order they’d move towards the wards, protected by the rest of the War Wizards, and start tearing them down. Usually that would take quite some time, hours of being exposed to enemy action, but for such an important battle the Tsar had granted him the use of the Wardleech, an artifact that drained wards of their power. Even with the artifact taking down Hogwarts’ wards would take almost half an hour. It could be done faster, but that ran the risk of overloading the Leech, with disastrous results.

The old wizard checked his watch. Five more minutes, provided everyone else was as ready as his wizards were.

*****

Marius Krum was ill at ease. He hadn’t felt good about the war - everyone but the diplomats was calling it that - ever since it had started. His fellow wizards, especially the Hungarians and the Romanians, and even some of his own Bulgarians, were too eager to shed blood. Too eager to kill some mudbloods. That wouldn’t be a war, but a massacre once they were in Hogsmeade. True, the way the purebloods of Britain had been slaughtered had been horrid to hear, but from what he heard from his cousin Viktor, they had all but asked for it. Of course, Viktor was prejudiced - he had had an affair with the Mudblood Minister herself, after all. Oh, he denied it, said they had been friends, nothing more, but everyone had read the articles. At least it had given Viktor an excuse to not get involved in the war. The press back home had been eating up his claims that he could not bear the thought of fighting his old love. How romantic! Instead poor Marius had to uphold family honor, and flatten some British village in the next hours. Then Marius remembered something else - Viktor’s reaction when they heard about the massacres in Britain. The star seeker had not been surprised, and simply said that he had thought that Hermione would have been quicker…

*****

To an outside observer, Marie d’Orléans was just another beautiful young woman, though a tad conservatively dressed, out on a stroll in London. Nothing in her face or gait gave away how tense she was, how much effort it took her to patiently wait. Again she had been denied a place at the frontlines! Instead she was to ‘observe and gather information’. From a safe distance. No matter how crucial information was in wartime according to her father, she ached to be among those who got to, finally, punish the British pigs for killing her best friend. And her brother, she reminded herself.

She was not even to enter Diagon Alley itself, but would observe - from a safe distance! - how a group of Aurors took control of the Leaky Cauldron, the dirtiest, most miserable excuse for a bar she had ever seen outside the slums of Algier.

From the way the young muggle who had been about to chat her up suddenly veered off and returned to his friends, her face must have finally betrayed her emotions, so Marie took another effort to calm herself down, to portray a harmless, polite and charming facade again. Even though all she wanted was to see justice done, finally, for Susanne.

At least it wouldn’t be long now. The attackers would be already inside Knockturn Alley, using the hidden apparition points they heard about from the unicorn horn smuggler captured a few months ago. Once the fighting started and Anti-Apparition Jinxes had been cast, the group she was to observe would storm the dive and prevent the British inside the alley from escaping through that door.

****

Henry Aberty felt as if everyone was staring at him, and seeing through his lies, as he was walking towards the Floo Network control room in the Ministry for Magic. Any second now one of the other workers would point at him, scream ‘Traitor!’, and then he’d be killed in seconds. Or captured, interrogated, and executed. He didn’t want to do this. He really didn’t. But he had sworn an oath. And if he failed, then his family would die. They would be murdered like so many had been murdered before. The Ministry had been taken over by enemies, and he had to open the Floo connections so the Ministry could be retaken, after they had foolishly left him in place since he was a pureblood.

He reached the Floo Network control room, and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was to do. His wand hidden at his side, he knocked on the door, then entered.

“Stupefy! Stupefy!”

*****

Half a country away from London, Francois Maladier felt the stone in his pocket vibrate three times. The signal from Aberty. The British weakling had done it, the Floos connections to the British Ministry were open for his forces and the additional connections installed here were linked up as well, their fires lit. Not bad for a man under so strong a Confundus Charm that he believed he was working for the mudblood regime and infiltrating a pureblood-held Ministry. Maladier wouldn’t have chosen such a plan - too much could go wrong - but it was the only way around the oaths the Ministry staff had sworn. An Obliviate so the man could pass the spell checks at the Floo Connections without showing any spells on him, with the confundus-changed memories restored by a potion that replaced the stomach soothing potion he always had to take after lunch.

The aristocratic French wizard stood with an effortless grace hinting at more than a bit of veela blood in his ancestry, and bowed to the Aberty family - wife, two children - sitting huddled at the table in their living room. “My apologies again, Madame Aberty, for the rude invasion of your home, but the needs of my country take precedence over my manners.”

The woman didn’t answer, just held her children even tighter. Maladier would have frowned at that, if he had not already turned to his aide. Those British purebloods had no manners. “Lucien, inform the other commandants that we will be entering the Ministry now.”

While his aide took out a communication mirror, Maladier opened the door to the garden, where a row of invisible tents had been pitched up last night. “Men! You have your orders! Go in the Duc’s name, and avenge our dauphin! Vive le Duc! Vive la France!”

The men storming out of the tents - far more than a non-enchanted tent would have been able to hold - took up the cries, and cheered as they ran into the fireplaces, each man shouting out the destination: Ministry of Magic.

Maladier’s wizards, all French, and all of them experienced past duelling, poured out the Floo connections in the Ministry’s atrium, wands spewing spells before their feet touched the ground. By the time the British guards realized what was happening, two workers and one guard had already been cut down and a Blasting Curse had taken out the machine gun nest opposite the Floo Connections and Apparition points - Aberty’s information had been very useful. It didn’t take long to secure the atrium after that.

*****

“It’s still an ugly brute, Charlie! It tried to bite my hand off when it had just hatched, I am certainly not giving it a chance to finish the job now that it’s fully grown!” Ron Weasley shook his head at his older brother.

“‘She’, Ron, not ‘it’. She’s a female Norwegian Ridgeback! And nesting!” Charlie Weasley was grinning broadly. “Soon we’ll have more than one Ridgeback on British soil!”

“Who is watching it while you’re here, trying to convince me to let the Dragon eat me?”

“Hagrid. Norberta remembered him. The two are bonding. Isn’t it touching?”

Ron was saved from finding an answer to that - his brother had surely gone mental in Romania! - by the sudden flares in the darkening sky.

“What…” Charlie blinked, surprised. He probably didn’t recognise it for what it was, but Ron realised at once that someone was attacking the wards of Hogwarts. Reflexes born from spending many of his formative years in danger and honed by weeks of training had him on his broom before Charlie could finish his question.

“Wards under attack, head to the Great Hall and help the teachers!” Ron bellowed as he sped away, towards the walls of Hogwarts. He needed to know what was happening so he could call for help.

By the time he arrived on the ramparts, the new guards had taken up positions already, their guns and wands aimed at the grounds below. “Sitrep!” Ron barked while dismounting from the broom, shrinking it without thinking about it while striding over to the two men putting up a light machine gun.

“Large number of wizards at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, attacking the wards. Several dozens at least, shielded. No sign of attackers massing at other locations, but they could be hidden better,” shouted one of them.

“Shielded?” Ron frowned. The attackers either knew about the range of firearms, or were very cautious. Both was bad news. He prefered overconfident foes, they usually made mistakes one could exploit.

He heard running steps behind him and whirled around, his wand and his L9A1 ‘Browning’ aimed at the person before he realized it was McGonagall.

“Mister Weasley!” the old woman exclaimed, and for a moment he was back at school, being reprimanded for a prank and adventure. Then he was a soldier again - no, the officer in command.

“Yes. The wards are under attack by unknown wizards, multiple dozens, or more, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. How long will the wards hold?” He asked, already turning back to study the enemy’s position.

“They are failing far quicker than expected. I don’t know how that’s possible. Even Voldemort took longer than this...” McGonagall’s voice was just a bit less composed than usual. Before she could try to take command and mess things up, Ron interrupted.

“Have a few teachers check the other areas around the castle, to spot hidden or disillusioned attackers, and tell them to inform me here. Evacuate the students into the Hufflepuff dorms. Before you use any Floos, check if the connections are still working. If they are working, contact the Longbottoms, their mansion is big enough to receive the students and warded.”

He turned around and checked the guards. By now a dozen of them were there, some still putting their gear on while others were ready to fight. Sadly, not many of them had night vision gear. He reached into his enchanted pocket and pulled out his own goggles. He studied the forest, then pulled out an enchanted flare gun from his pocket. “I’ll illuminate the forest. Put your night vision gear away. On my order, start firing at the men lined up there.”

A few seconds later the flare went up, revealing the enemy troops. A curse to the right of him informed him that one had not been listening, and had still been looking through the night vision lenses when the flare went up. Amateur.

“Fire!”

*****

Aleksandar didn’t curse when the darkness they were standing in was suddenly replaced by a bright light from the sky. He had been expecting a reaction from Hogwarts’ staff. He did curse when he heard a ripping noise, like a lot of firecrackers going off, and men were starting to fall down, bleeding and screaming.

“Link and overlap shields!” he bellowed out, and his War Wizards clustered together. Overlapping shields was a speciality of the Russian War Wizards, allowing them to withstand attacks that would devastate anyone else. It took a lot of wizards to maintain a shield cluster, but Russia had wizards to spare. A few of the French managed to get under cover of the overlapping shields too, but many of them were left on the ground where they had been struck. As were a number of his War Wizards. With their positions now secure for the moment, he focused on finding the enemy. He hadn’t seen any spell fire from up close, only some flashes from the ramparts, hundreds of meters away, way out of the range of spells. Then he realized - the British were using guns. And unless there was a whole regiment up there, they were using guns enchanted to reload quickly. His respect for the enemy went up a notch - this might be a bigger challenge than he thought. Still, once the wards were down he could close in, and once inside the castle they would lose the range advantage and his superior numbers would carry the day. Especially once his forces on the other side of the castle came into play. Overlapping shields of a War Wizard company could withstand boulders thrown by giants, and to dispel them they had to come into range of their spells and reveal themselves. Guns or no guns, the British would still lose.

The fire ebbed, and Aleksandar shouted out to his wizards to get ready for an enemy sally. It didn’t happen. Instead, the shield clusters were suddenly drenched with liquid that ignited a second later. “Bubblehead charms!” he bellowed, casting one himself. Fire wouldn’t hurt them behind the shields, and the charms would allow them to breathe. Then the guns started up again, probably hoping for them to panic and drop the shields. Azarov smiled grimly - as if his War Wizards would panic!

For the next few minutes the British kept their fire up. He could see the impacts of the guns on his shields. They probably were frantic now, torn between coming closer and use magic, or hide away and pray for someone to save them. No luck, their Floos were down, and apparition was impossible from Hogwarts, they knew that from the last Triwizard Tournament. He glanced at his Curse-Breakers. They were ignoring the whole battle and focusing on their task, like the well-trained men they were. Just a few more minutes, and the wards would be down.

Suddenly the shield cluster to his left was destroyed in a fireball. Aleksandar stared, frozen for a second. How was that possible? A full shield cluster, gone like that? What spell could… another flash, and another shield cluster was gone, replaced by burning wizards, some of them still alive. That had come from above them. He looked up and saw a man in muggle clothes, on a broom, far above them, out of range of his spells, aiming a tube at them. Was that a cannon? Then he realized what cluster the broom flyer was aiming at, and his eyes widened with fear.

“Retreat! Retreat!” he bellowed while running towards the rear. It would doom most of his forces, but a few might survive. Fortunately his men reacted as trained, despite the suicidal nature of his command, and the ones in the back ranks dropped their shields, starting to run as well while the first rank stood their ground. He would have stayed himself, but he had to inform the rest about this weapon that could defeat shield clusters. The forest and the end of the Anti-Apparition wards was just there!

Then the enemy weapon struck the cluster shielding the curse breakers and the Wardleech. The artifact released all the power it had drained in one destructive wave of pure magic, disrupting the shields still maintained, and throwing wizards around like ragdolls. Aleksandar was struck down before he could apparate away, stunned, and didn’t regain consciousness again until he had bled out from a bullet wound taken while fleeing.

****

Ron Weasley was panting and shivering, dangling from his broom from one hand. Whatever that explosion had been had almost thrown him off his broom. It had been much worse than playing Quidditch in a stormfront - he had done that once, drunk, on a dare. His AT4 was gone, but it was disposable anyway. No big loss there, and he had two more in his enchanted pack. He pulled himself up on his broom, telling himself it was just like PT, and flew back to the ramparts. By the time he reached them, no one could tell how shaken he was. A year ago he would have lapped up the attention, the awe the guards showed while staring at him, as if he was Harry Potter himself, come to smite down the enemy, but now he felt like cursing - they were wasting time!

“I want two of you to check for survivors, the rest check for enemies on the rest of the perimeter. Move!” He shouted, and they almost fell over themselves while obeying. Ron himself rose up a few hundred meters and pulled out his night vision gear to check from above for enemies. The battle wasn’t over yet.

*****

Marius Krum felt like vomiting, staring at the remains of what had been a family of four just a minute ago, before one of the Hungarians had stopped their flight from Hogsmeade with a Bombarda. This wasn’t what he.. this wasn’t… They had been ordered to cut off escape routes, but… that meant enemy wizards, not children… didn’t it? At least it had only been one family that had fled in his group’s direction. The other families probably had been smart enough not to flee. An explosion from the village made him turn his head, and stare at the pillar of smoke rising into the night sky, now illuminated by a growing fire, and he felt a shiver run down his spine, and settle as a cold lump in his stomach when he realised that the village was not safer at all for anyone there. He didn’t want to be here!

His thoughts were interrupted by a series of loud cracks, and he saw the men next to him fall, bleeding and screaming. A Shield Charm cast almost instinctually saved him - or so he assumed. Then he saw another fall down, the shield bubble around him disappearing. That was too much. He tried to apparate away, but failed - the wards were still up. He was in the process of pulling out his shrunken broom, his mind set on fleeing any way possible, when he felt a blow in his stomach, and found himself falling. Pain filled him, his insides felt as if on fire, and he couldn’t stand up no matter how hard he tried.

He was clawing at the earth, trying to drag himself away from the place, when he found himself staring at the corpse of the youngest child of the dead family, and froze. Around him the British who had ambushed him were finishing off the wounded, none of them giving any quarter to people who had just killed fleeing children. Marius Krum didn’t notice that. He was still staring at the dead child when a bullet ended his life.

*****

Marcel Malfoy was grinning widely, caught in the rush of battle. He and his men, all trained duellers, had just taken Knockturn Alley, and were storming into Diagon Alley. In front of him, mudbloods and blood traitors were fleeing for their lives, not knowing they had no way to escape. Anti-Apparition Jinxes covered the whole area, Floo connections were not working, and the Leaky Cauldron would be blocked. It was glorious! He casually downed a young boy coming out of a side alley of Knockturn Alley with a Cutting Curse while shielding a stunner from a shopkeeper at the corner.

Then they were out in the open, in Diagon Alley. The British shopping mile. The heart of their commerce. Up ahead Gringotts would be sealing up, the beasts would not want to take part in this battle. But all around him were mudbloods and blood traitors, just begging to be punished for their crimes! He laughed, seeing them flee inside shops, cowering in fear. It would not save them!

One of his men took a step towards the closest shop, ready to blow the door away, when he suddenly toppled over, bleeding. Then another fell. And another. Marcel hastily retreated into Knockturn Alley, dodging a curse thrown from the shop keeper he had thought was huddling in fear. What was happening?

“Rally men! Don’t go off alone!” he shouted, and his remaining men - more than enough still to wipe out all the mudblood rabble infesting the heart of Wizarding Britain - complied. He sent two Romanians ahead, under shields. They were expendable, unlike his French wizards.

A wise decision, the two were dead a few steps into Diagon Alley. Someone must have banished shards of metal at them, somehow bypassing their shield. No, overpowering it! They were just Romanians, not French, but still… He sent two more - at wand point, though, the cowards hesitated! - out under a disillusion charm. Those made it farther into the alley, then someone must have revealed them, and they died at once.

“We’ll all go out disillusioned, half of us go up the roofs, the rest through the alley. Once we’re halfway up the alley, start to cast Fiendfyre at the houses!” He bellowed. No matter the mudblood trickery - hiding in houses, and ambushing wizards? Cowards! - tonight Diagon Alley would burn! Even if he had to sacrifice all the foreigners under his command!

*****

The British Ministry of Magic was filled with screams, spells, and the sounds of fighting. The attack and sabotage had come as a surprise, and the alerts coming from Hogsmeade, Hogwarts and Diagon Alley had only made the chaos worse. The staff still present had quickly realized they were on their own - Floo connections were down, and Anti-Apparition Jinxes had been cast.

Harry Potter was thanking whatever higher power was listening that he had been with Hermione when the attack had started. If he had had to decide whether he should save, err, link forces with her, or direct the defense… As it was, the two of them, Dean and Roberts, and Hermione’s secretary formed the core of the defense of the Minister’s floor, rallying the other workers who had stayed late. A few sealing and locking spells had bought them time enough to organise and plan, though the doors would not hold forever. At least the traps in the lift had claimed a few attackers - fools.

“The Department of Mysteries will be sealed off. They won’t get in there,” Hermione, brushing a stray lock of hair that had escaped her ponytail, off her face, stated with conviction. She had personally overseen the security there, after realising just how dangerous some of the research done there was.

“The lower staff floors are probably gone. Too few workers left there, no guards,” Harry continued. “The DMLE is holding out, according to the Patronuses we got, but they are under pressure. Relief is not expected for some time. This is not a raid, this is an invasion.”

Dean and Robert nodded. Dean’s face was grim, Robert looked almost eager.

“They’ll be focusing on the door. We’ll hit them from behind.” Harry smiled. He didn’t feel like smiling - even if this made him feel as if it was him, Hermione and Ron again, three students against the world, betting their lives on an improvised plan and sheer stubbornness, talent and luck - but it would help morale.

“How?” Robert Smith didn’t quite sound sceptical, but Harry knew the man had some reservations. He hadn’t fought with them in the Blood War, and had only joined up after the Revolution. He was experienced, and skilled, but hadn’t seen Harry and Hermione ’really cutting loose’ as the saying went.

Hermione grinned, and explained: “Harry will shrink us down. We will escape the floor through the air ducts, then attack the invaders from the flank or behind - after undoing the shrinking.” She didn’t mention that the air ducts were warded against intruders using such a method the day after she had thought of that, even though by her calculations one needed Harry’s power to shrink a human-sized target down to mouse size.

“Trust me, she knows what we are doing.” Harry smiled again, even more when Hermione elbowed him, whispering ‘Behave!’ The short exchange did serve to lift their comrades’ spirits, at least.

*****

Marie d’Orléans had even more trouble maintaining her calm and polite facade. The group had gone into the Leaky Cauldron on schedule, but just as she had been about to follow them, one of them had been blown out the door. Anti-Muggle wards had kept the muggles on the street from noticing, but Marie had seen some green-clad men drag the corpse back inside, then fix the door with a quick Repairing Charm. Suddenly she felt glad her father had been so protective. She only hoped the attack on Diagon Alley was doing better.

*****

Francois Maladier felt like screaming. The Curse-Breakers with him were still trying to break into the floor housing the minister’s office. That mudblood must have had layered defenses like an egyptian tomb! “Double your efforts! The honor of France is at stake!” They would avenge the death of the dauphin!

“The Russians are still busy at the DMLE offices instead of helping us,” one of his subordinates muttered.

“They are Russians, they’ll drown the enemy in their blood if they need it to win. We are French! We will beat those British mudbloods without sacrificing half our forces.” He turned around, frowning. “Rear guard! Keep your attention to the rear!” That was the problem with a force full of elan, full of courage - they were focused on advancing, not watching their rear. He shook his head, almost fondly. He still would not take any other wizards over his own.

A yell from the rear guard he just had admonished made him turn in time to see two metal eggs fly around the corner, and then detonate among the men of the rear guard, turning fine French wizards into screaming and bleeding masses of flesh.

“Men, to me!” he yelled, casting a shield. His men - the best of his force - were already reacting, shields popping up and conjured animals appearing. Whatever had sneaked around to attack them in their rear - probably past some foolish, mulish Russians - would not live long!

Then the entire wall that guarded his left flank was blasted apart, stone shards hitting a few unlucky wizards while the sheer force of the impact sent half his remaining wizards to the ground. Dust rose up, obscuring his vision while he reoriented himself, and then two persons stepped through the cloud of dust.

The French were accomplished duellers, and had combat experience from battling the wizards of the Barbary Coast Enclaves and the slaving raiders preying on the veela colonies. And yet neither their skill nor their experience seemed to be of any use as they were slaughtered where they stood. Maladier couldn’t believe his eyes as he saw a Severing Charm cut three men in half to his right - a single spell! On the other side one, then another of his men were suddenly turning their wands on their own side - with lethal spells. Filled with anger he fired a blasting curse at the enemies, only to have it stopped by a Shield Charm, the blast hitting his own men without even denting the shields of the enemy. The dust cloud started to settle then, despite a few more Blasting Curses thrown around, all blocked by one of the strongest Shield Charms he had ever seen, and he recognized the two - the Boy-Who-Lived, and the Mudblood Minister.

Half of his remaining men were fighting the other half by then, a result, he realized, of the mudblood’s spellcasting - he could see her wand moving, but couldn’t hear any incantations, nor see any visible spells. At the same time, the Boy-Who-Lived blasted the Curse-Breakers into the door they had been trying to open, smashing most of them to pulp despite the shields they had up. And then he turned his wand on Maladier himself. The French commander had just time to see eyes the color of the killing curse blaze at him, then he felt himself be thrown off his feet, and into the closest wall while his wand was ripped out of his hand. A Disarming Charm! A simple Disarming Charm! He had still trouble to believe what he had seen when he fell unconscious.

*****

Harry glanced over the fallen French. A few quick bone breakers made sure none of those who were still alive would be a threat without attention from a Healer. Hermione was sending the survivors of those she had ‘turned’ against the enemy forces still assaulting the DMLE offices. Even if it did not sow distrust into the enemy ranks they would make good cannon fodder. Mental manipulation spells were Hermione’s speciality. For a witch who had replaced her parents’ memories with fabricated ones at the age of 17, turning an enemy into an ally was child’s play - and, as she was fond to point out, much less wasteful than simply overpowering them. Not that she was serious - Harry had power to spare, with the Elder Wand boosting his already impressive power further. Instant stone walls had taken care of the Unforgivables sent at them, and vastly overpowered Cutting Curses had taken care of the casters of the Unforgivables.

Dean and Robert had taken out a few stragglers on their floor, and joined Harry and Hermione and their recently turned unwitting allies when they fell on the Russian rearguard. They were more stubborn than the French, but less skilled, and seemed as vulnerable to Hermione’s spells, if less shaken by Harry’s power. Nevertheless, they were beaten in a minute, but took five more to finally admit defeat - most of them did so by being dead. Good shields, though - five of them had closed ranks and combined their shield spells somehow, and the result had withstood even Harry’s blasting curses for a time. Hermione was likely already trying to find out how that had been achieved.

With the two main parts of the enemy forces inside the atrium destroyed, the remaining French and Russian wizards inside the Ministry, most of them in the atrium, were doomed. A number of the French surrendered, but the Russians fought on and died to a man, even when it was clear they had no hope to survive, much less win against the British forces. Hermione was working on restoring the Floo Network, finding out where the enemies had come in from at the same time, while Harry was organizing the remaining wizards and witches in the Ministry before taking down the anti-apparition wards the enemy had put up. From what a number of Messenger Patronuses had stated, Hogwarts was safe, Hogsmeade in the process of being cleared, but Diagon Alley was burning, with the invading forces pushed back into Knockturn Alley while a major part of the defenders were holding Fiendfyre at bay.

Harry’s eyes sought Hermione’s. He didn’t like leaving her here, but thanks to his personal power and the Elder Wand, he could deal with Fiendfyre far better than a dozen of other wizards. More quickly too. She nodded at him, and he turned away, picking half a dozen DMLE officers, leaving Robert and Dean to guard Hermione.

*****

Marie d’Orléans was all but running away. Only the knowledge that actually running would draw attention, lethal attention, kept her at a brisk walk. She had still been observing the Leaky Cauldron when she had spotted the Boy-Who-Lived himself walking towards it. He was followed by six witches and wizards, but Marie had only eyes for the man. His eyes had been blazing with fury, his expression promised death for anyone he caught - or so she felt - and the power, Merlin, the power! There had been a rippling aura around him that sent shivers down her spine and made her want to blindly flee. Suddenly all the tales about him didn’t seem to be overblown anymore. Marie had turned around and walked away at once - she knew, no matter what had happened so far in Diagon Alley, the battle would be lost. She could only hope the other forces had fared better.

*****


	15. Aftermath

**Chapter 15: Aftermath**

When Harry Potter returned to the Ministry the sun was starting to rise. He was unharmed, but strongly smelled of smoke, and worse, and looked tired if not exhausted. Hermione didn’t look that much better, but for the lack of soot. She hugged him, obviously relieved he was back, and then handed him a Pepperup potion, for once without a cautionary remark about overdosing. He needed it.

Harry chugged it, and still fell into more than sat down in his customary seat in Hermione’s office. “We put out the last Fiendfyre an hour ago, and didn’t spot any other fire. We trapped most of the attackers in Knockturn Alley, but about a dozen got away on brooms when we stormed the place. We couldn’t stop all of them, too many of us were tied up dealing with the fires, or still fighting on the ground.” There was no pride or frustration in his voice, just tired acceptance - he had done what he could.

Hermione nodded. “We can use a pensieve and get the number and hopefully description of the attackers that have escaped.” The wizards could easily alter their appearance, but some of the purebloods might not think of that, or so harry hoped while she continued: “We found the missing staff when we swept the building for attackers who were hiding themselves. Miller hid with her secretary under her desk. The rest was dead when we found them.” She shuffled a few papers, and didn’t comment on how the people had died.

“How did they get in?” Harry would have leaned forward, eager to hear the answer, but he felt still too tired to move unless needed. He was closer to magical exhaustion than he had ever been since Hogwarts.

“The Unspeakables are still investigating, but we found Henry Aberty in the Floo Network control room, dead. Preliminary results show he died from breaking a magical oath,” Hermione explained. “I agree with that.”

“How did he make it past the Floo security if he was breaking his oath?” Harry had thought the checks for spells like the Imperius were unbeatable, and an oath breaker shouldn’t have been able to enter even.

“That’s the big question. We’re checking for traces of potions too. The invaders came from his home, through a few additional Floo connections too, but his family had already been stunned and obliviated when our troops reached their home.” Hermione sounded frustrated - though more at the lack of insight into this puzzle than the fact that more enemies had escaped, or so Harry thought. That, and her pride had to be wounded, she had personally checked the security system they had set up. To be outthought by a pureblood… it had to vex her. 

This time Harry did lean forward, and patted her arm. “Don’t worry, you’ll find out how they did it. We did take prisoners, after all.”

“Yes we did. Here, at least. Hogwarts though… the castle itself was not damaged, the wards held, but the main force of the attackers was killed to a man, the rest escaped.” 

Harry was surprised. “No prisoners taken?” He could understand such a thing if they had entered the castle and attacked children, but with the wards holding…

Hermione sighed. “From what I gathered from the first reports, the attackers were hiding behind strong shields - similar to the one the Russians used here I think - that withstood machine gun fire. So the officer in command of our forces there used ‘portable anti-tank weapons to breach the shields while the machine gunners kept up suppressive fire’. When the shields fell, the gunfire killed the attackers that survived ‘a strange secondary explosion, possibly of magical origin’.” Hermione frowned when quoting what was either a written report, or notes from an oral one.

Harry blinked. “Where did we get anti-tank weapons? And why? Who was the officer in charge?”

Hermione signed. “Ron was visiting Charlie, who is settling there with Norberta. Apparently, he has not only taken to explosives, but also started carrying any weapon he can get his hands on in his bottomless pocket.”

Harry laughed. “At least he doesn’t carry his flying tank around with him. Sorry, his ‘flying Armored Personnel Carrier’.” He stopped laughing when he saw Hermione wincing. “What?”

“He requested a way to shrink his APC so he can carry it with him and apparate with it.” Hermione’s voice was drier than a desert. “Went through all the proper channels too, with all the proper paperwork.”

Harry very carefully didn’t laugh, but felt better. “Is that possible?” 

“I don’t see why not - just requires a lot of power. I can think of only three people who could do it with the standard spell, and two of them are dead.” Hermione carefully didn’t smirk while Harry connected the dots.

  
“Merlin! I’ll have to shrink it for him?”

“And re-shrink it whenever it was used.” Hermione grinned. “To be fair, it is a valid idea, and would allow us to deploy the thing much faster.”

Harry groaned. “And how long do you think it’ll be until he demands I shrink a Main Battle Tank?”

Hermione shrugged her shoulders. “That depends on how well our ‘Special Recruiting Mission’ goes. If it works well we can expand past the SAS and similar infantry forces into heavier weapons.”

“I still can’t believe you came up with it. Doesn’t the irony of it strike you?”

“It’s all strictly voluntarily, Harry. No one is forced into it,” Hermione answered, all prim and proper, then grinned. “And yes, I find the irony deliciously funny.”

Harry shrugged. “So… we covered Hogwarts. How did Hogsmeade fare?”

Hermione grew serious at once. “Unfortunately not that well. Hogsmeade was wide open for an attack, not many buildings had wards that could stand up to a determined attack, and the invaders blocked Apparition and portkeys right away, so our troops were busy evacuating the civilians at first - with only partial success. At least that backfired on the attackers. When Ron and the rest from Hogwarts arrived those busy killing civilians and starting fires were unable to flee.”

“Didn’t they have brooms?”

“They did. But the area was wide open, no cover, and half of Ron’s forces arrived on brooms. A number still escaped, but most got killed. The French tried to fight in the streets, the others mostly holed up in some of the surviving houses and they had to ‘dig them out’, as Ron called it. As I understood, that was literally the case for at least two groups where they simply collapsed the buildings on top of them. Grawp was really angry.”

Harry didn’t ask about prisoners there. Hermione’s flat tone told him enough. There was a time he would have been appalled at such events, but nowadays he regretted the loss of information prisoners could have given more than the loss of life. “We need to reign them in. If only to get better information.”

“Yes. I told Ron so already. What about Diagon Alley?”

“Most of it still stands. Half a dozen houses burned down, but most civilians escaped.” Harry answered. Most, not all. He didn’t want to think of the clothes shop he had seen, full of dead people inside - victims of a Blasting Curse, if his brief impression was correct. There had been children among them. “Knockturn Alley, on the other hand… mostly destroyed. Many civilian victims too - they were unable to or unwilling to escape.” And probably didn’t trust the Ministry forces not to kill them on sight. Aurors had not really been gentle or careful in the past when dealing with that corner of Wizarding Britain and its denizens. Hermione had tried to change the attitude, but muggleborns were not the only ones with long memories. 

“How many did we lose?”

“Too many,” he said. Truth to be told, they had gotten off lightly given the attackers’ numbers and the surprise they had achieved, but Harry had known most of those fallen in the Ministry or when they retook Diagon Alley.

“Anything else we’ll have to cover in our meeting with the Prime Minister?”

“Nothing I can think of right now.”

The Pepperup potions they had taken were still working, so a nap was out of the question even if there were not dozens of reports to read and decisions to make. Even so, Hermione locked the door with a flick of her wand and sat in Harry’s lap, both hugging each other for a little while. It wasn’t much, but they needed it.

*****

The Prime Minister had been informed about the attacks in the night, but had not received independent reports of the events until mid-morning. So far they confirmed the official reports from the Ministry of Magic, but he was a firm believer in truth being the first casualty of war, and so did not fully trust either reports. At least no one had targeted him this time. Given the numbers of attackers, he didn’t think he would have survived. 

The wizarding press - if one could call those magical papers on his desk that - was in an uproar, the Daily Prophet’s editorial screaming for vengeance and an immediate invasion of Paris, followed by pages upon pages of ‘war reports’, mostly pictures of burning houses and tales of death and destruction. The Quibbler had similar pictures, but less sensational reports of the attacks, but made up for it with rampant speculations about the monsters and spells that had allowed the invaders to invade. Apparently, the invaders had been air dropped by heliopaths, or had traveled in the belly of a giant mole. He wondered briefly how long it would be until someone institutionalized this ‘Luna Lovegood’, then shelved the thought - for a pureblood she seemed not too eccentric, at least as far as he could tell, and he still suspected the whole magazine was satirical in nature.

His secretary informed him that ‘his 9 O’clock appointment had arrived’, and he put the more secret reports away. To have the magicals not entering his office whenever they pleased, but actually asking for an appointment, was a great relief in his opinion. He carefully schooled his features before the pair entered, and looked them over. Both looked quite fresh, far fresher than people who had spent most of the night fighting for their lives and then organising a country under attack had a right to, and he felt envious of magic again. “Please, have a seat. We’ve got much to discuss.”

*****

Marie d’Orléans felt like casting a few unforgivables. The nerve of those British swine! The lies in their rags that they called newspapers! She was grateful she didn’t have to conceal her anger and outrage while reading - all the wizards around her in the Leaky Cauldron were full of rage themselves, and unlikely to notice she was outraged at the newspapers, not at the events depicted. To claim that the French forces were criminals, plundering houses and murdering children! It made her blood boil. As if the flower of Magical France would stoop to such despicable acts! 

While around her the British wizards were whipping themselves into a frenzy, and several storming off to ‘join up’ - whatever that meant - Marie suddenly grinned with glee. There, in an article detailing the attack on Hogwarts - repelled without British losses? Were the Russians even more incompetent than she had thought? - she read about the British leader there: Ronald Weasley, on a break from his duties protecting British airspace from French fliers. According to the newspaper he was personally responsible for the defeat of the entire French broom corps. She had a name for the murderer of her dear Susanne, at last! Then she sobered up. Ronald Weasley… she knew the name. The best friend of the Boy-Who-Lived and the lover of the Mudblood Minister. Or the lover of both - the magazines were a bit unclear on their exact relationship, they only agreed that it was scandalous. He wouldn’t be easy to kill. But she was the daughter of the Duc d’Orléans, she’d overcome whatever the British mudbloods had thought of, and get her revenge.

She forced herself to smile at the waitress, who was dressed in a piece of fabric one would not even store potatoes in in Paris, paid her tea and left the Leaky Cauldron. She needed a cup of coffee, and it seemed the only acceptable coffee in London was made by muggles. A good thing too - currently she felt safer among muggles than among wizards.

*****

Sergeant Arthur ‘Artie’ Wilkinson was gaping. It was not possible, he must have misunderstood this officer. “What?” Belatedly he added: “Sir.” 

The man took his reaction in stride. “You understood me correctly, Sergeant. In order to undertake this dangerous and top secret mission you volunteered for, you will have to marry. You will be divorced after a few hours, and Her Majesty’s Government guarantees there will be no financial consequences from this marriage, but the wedding must take place. You also will not, ah, consummate the marriage. It is a purely formal requirement.”

It was official now - the brass had gone over the edge. Artie was certain of that. They had pulled him out of the regiment - with half his mates - for a sham marriage? He was about to protest again when the officer cut him off.

“I assure you, this is no joke, but a crucial requirement for a mission of utmost importance. Once you will be briefed - after the wedding - you’ll understand, trust me.” He did sound dead serious. 

Artie shook his head, but managed to answer: “Yes, sir. I understand sir. When and where will the wedding happen?”

“In the room next to us, and at once.” 

The man knocked on the door, and then waved Artie through. The still bewildered sergeant found himself in a small room, with a desk, a chair behind it, and two in front of it. Through another door a man entered in a suit, followed by a young woman wearing a rather conservative dress. Both smiled at him.

“Sergeant Wilkinson? Here’s your paperwork, please sign on the dotted lines so we can proceed.” The unknown man said in a rather bored tone.

Artie did as he was told to, and a glance to his side showed him the woman did the same.

The man collected the papers, and a short lecture later Artie found himself married to a ‘Sally-Anne Perks’. She didn’t sound nor look like a foreigner who may need a marriage of convenience to stay in Britain. Pretty, but barely out of her teens. No one told him to kiss the bride, though. Instead he was told to pose for a picture ‘for the paperwork’, then ordered into a briefing room, where he found his missing mates from the regiment. Most looked as bewildered as he felt, one was rubbing his cheek, where the faint outline of a handprint could be made out. What conversations he could follow all recounted the same weird marriage ceremony he had gone through. There were even a few officers among them!

Then another officer - a colonel - entered and the men inside the room jumped to their feet at attention while one officer announced the room ready for the briefing. His new wife had followed the colonel and stood at his side, smiling.

“Good morning. You all are wondering why you had to marry a girl you did not even know. The answer lies in an old law that restricts the information you will receive now to the spouses of certain persons. In short, gentlemen, magic exists, and our country is currently at war with several magical nations. The mission you volunteered for is to fight against witches and wizards, together with British witches and wizards.”

The room exploded at that, but whatever angry comments the men were shouting were silenced when the new - and temporary - Mrs Wilkinson waved a stick and suddenly, a row of desks turned into an elephant.

After a few more, if not as spectacular demonstrations of magic, Artie was convinced that the brass had not gone crazy - at least not more than usual. But even an experienced soldier - one of Britain’s best - such as him was still shocked by the revelation that he’d start training in  ‘magical warfare’ immediately after his divorce. The worst though was that he was not allowed to tell this story to anyone who didn’t already know about magic - the free drinks he’d miss out due to this...

*****

Ron Weasley took a look at the row of young wizards and witches waiting for him. Most looked quite unused to the fatigues they were wearing. Had he looked as lost as they did, back when he had started his own training? He hoped not. Purebloods, all of them. If not for the oaths everyone had to take that would be a security concern. There was Ginny, fidgeting next to Neville. Both had volunteered after the invasion, though Neville with the full support of Augusta, who had not taken well to ‘French and Russian scum invading British soil’ while Ginny probably still had not told their mum she was now a soldier. He felt like wincing - telling mum that her only daughter was now fighting in a war would not go well for anyone involved. Hopefully he was off fighting in France when that happened, he might not hear the screaming then. But he had a job to do.

Coughing, he drew the attention of the wizards and witches to him. “Greetings, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the British Magical Armed Forces. I am Ron Weasley, and since the French are still licking their wounds, I’ve got time to introduce you to life in the army.” A few smiled - he was pretty well known, after all.

“Now, many of you were members of the D.A.” He didn’t call it Dumbledore’s Army anymore. Dumbledore didn’t deserve the honor, and now that he knew what an army was, a bunch of kids didn’t deserve to call themselves an army either. He spotted a number, among them Ginny and Neville, straighten up. “Now, for those who were in the D.A., I’ve got bad news: We’re doing things differently here. A lot.” That caused some surprised gasps, and some chatter, which he cut off with a sharp: “Be silent and listen!”

“I know you think your task will be taking out French and Russian invaders with powerful spells. Stunners, Disarming Charms, Bone-Breaking Curses and Blasting Hexes. Am I right?” 

A few muttered agreements, the smarter ones looked confused. 

He continued: “You’re wrong. Your main task in a fight, whether on the ground or on a broom, will be to find the enemies when they are hiding behind Disillusion Charms or under invisibility cloaks, to remove Muggle-Repelling jinxes and other spells they might have on them, and then point them out to your muggle mates, who will be killing them. For those who do not join the broom riders you will also side-apparate your squadmates and create portkeys.” Most of them would join the broom riding corps though. He had been told for broom riders it was like for cavalry in the old times - with a few exceptions, like Harry, one had to grow up riding to be a good cavalryman or broom rider. 

“Now, many of you will be asking themselves how muggles will be killing wizards, even without their charms. Let me show you what we call the ‘ L110A2’, the standard light machine gun of the British Army. I’ve set up a few targets over there.” Ron smiled openly - he loved firing the Minimi, and the faces on the wizards and witches with him after they saw what the weapon did to his conjured target dummies… priceless. He couldn’t wait to swap stories later with his mates who got to see the muggle soldiers introduced to magic.

As expected the bunch of purebloods jerked and some even screamed when he shredded the dummies with his machine gun. Not telling them the weapon was enchanted to be easier to control felt a bit like cheating - but then, he was a Weasley, pranking was in his blood, and if you didn’t cheat in war, you were not trying.

He turned back to the group of gaping volunteers. “Now that you’ve seen how we will kill our enemies it’s time for your training in how not to get killed in war to start.” 

Fortunately, others would take over that training. Ron was mainly here to show them that even a pureblood like him who was pretty much clueless about muggles could become an expert in muggle weapons. Again, not exactly true, but as long as it served to help morale, all was ok in his opinion. Now if only Harry would solve the problem with shrinking an APC and keeping it in stasis so it would still work no matter how long it went without maintenance...

*****

Tsar Cyril Dmitrovich Romanov’s face showed no emotion when he read the reports he had received. The entire force of War Wizards, lost. The auxiliaries, massacred, but for a few cowards who had fled. The French, killed where they stood. It was a heavy blow, but Russia had weathered worse. And it proved just how dangerous the mudbloods were.

He dropped the report on his desk, ignoring the portraits of his ancestors trying to read the first page from their spots on the wall. Russia had more War Wizards, but he could ill afford to send them all to battle. Not when facing such foes. War Wizards were purebloods, trained extensively. They couldn’t be replaced easily. He’d have to recruit more expendable forces. Half-bloods and mudbloods. There were too many of them anyway. They’d not need as much training as War Wizards received; they’d mostly serve as curse-fodder. Hopefully the French would hold out long enough against the British for his efforts to bear fruit.

*****

Antoine Malfoy was trembling with rage. La Grande Invasion, foiled like this? The best of France, lost? His own blood, dead in some British alley like a common thug? It was impossible! He had seen the plans, had seen the forces, knew they had achieved surprise as well. How could they have been defeated? By mudbloods? 

He crumpled the Daily Prophet up and banished it into a waste bin, then set it on fire, enjoying how the figures on the pictures unsuccessfully tried to flee. If only those were the real mudbloods burning there!

But more was at stake than finding the reason for the defeat of the forces of France. He had been subtle, but everyone who mattered knew that he was the power behind the invasion - well, one of them. His rivals would be looking for a scapegoat for this defeat, and the lost leaders of the French forces would not suffice. When the masses wanted blood, they wanted to see and smell the blood, and no one dead or caught in Britain could satisfy that.

Malfoy was no fool, he knew he was not popular, unlike the Duc. Merlin, the Duc! Malfoy stared at the latest report from his informant in the Ministry’s Auror branch. The Duc’s daughter was missing? The Duc would be looking for blood too. What to do, what to do… Treason! The defeat had to be the result of treason, there had to be a traitor in the highest rank! 

Malfoy snarled. There was but one French pureblood family that had close ties to the enemy. The Delacours. Their eldest daughter had married a British blood traitor, after all. Yes, he saw it now, their resistance against the war efforts, their cautionary advice… they had not just betrayed their blood, but their country too!

He stood up and started to pace, making plans to ensure they would not be able to escape. The Delacours would pay for their treachery!

******* **


	16. Mission to France

**Chapter 16: Mission to France**

Fleur Weasley, née Delacour, was pacing back and forth in the waiting room, as much as the rather small room allowed. The young Veela was frantic with worry for her family and couldn’t sit still when her parents and her little sister were in mortal danger! Her husband Bill was sitting on a chair, and tried to look calm, but she knew he was as anxious as herself, he just hid it better. Maybe there was something to the cliche of the English stiff upper lip. Next to him were his parents, Molly and Arthur. Molly was almost ripping her hat into shreds with her hands out of frustration at being unable to do something for her family while Arthur, to the surprise of those who didn’t knew him well, was actually calm and composed, but dead serious - the anchor of the family in such a crisis. Percy had come with them, but then had gone to work to sound out some international contacts, to see if there was some leverage against the French. Even George was here, and seemed sober for a change - or sober enough while he scribbled into a notebook and mumbled about new items that would ‘show those French bastards they could not mess with the Weasleys’. Charlie would have been here, if he had been able to leave Norberta by herself, and Ginny and Ron were ‘on duty and could not leave’ - Molly’s reaction to hearing that had been as loud as colorful as one would expect, but had happened thankfully back at the cottage. The matriarch of the Weasley family might have mellowed out some - Fleur didn’t think so, but others did - but she still had a legendary temper. At least her reaction proved beyond a doubt that she had not just accepted Fleur as part of the family - at last! - but adopted Fleur’s parents and sister as well. Fleur almost laughed at the thought of how her father and mother would react to the woman trying to mother them, then almost cried when she realized she might not see that happen, ever, unless a miracle happened.

She glanced to the French newspaper, slightly damaged from the Weasleys’ reaction, that proclaimed in big letters that her parents had been arrested, on the charge of high treason, and were currently incarcerated in the dungeons of the Bastille, the magical subterranean part of the prison that had survived the French Revolution, while her little sister was on the run. Barely 14, what could her little sister do, all alone? She was no Harry Potter, able to outfly dragons at 14. Even if she had escaped from Beauxbatons before the Aurors could arrest her - and wasn’t that a sign of how .. wrong … the government was, arresting a child - Fleur knew that there were even worse dangers awaiting a young Veela, especially in the Mediterranean. The Beys of Magical Algier had never given up on slavery, and everyone knew Veelas were prized among those filthy despots. The thought of her little sister being brought into a harem… Fleur felt her ire rise, a tingle running through her body as her innate magic rose, transforming her.

Before she could sprout feathers and manifest fireballs, and possibly start a fire inside the Ministry, Bill was there, hugging her, calming her down, mumbling empty but still reassuring promises into her ear that all would end well, that they would save their family. And at that moment the door opened, and a young woman announced that the Minister for Magic and the Chief Warlock would now see them.

*****

Harry Potter had not been looking forward to this meeting. The Weasley family in a frenzy was nothing to take lightly - doubly so if they had a just cause for their worry, as was the case here. Hermione and he had been planning this since they had received the news of the arrest of the Delacours, slightly ahead of the rest of the country, but not by much. Their best source of information - or intel, as Ron would say - was a squib employe of the British Embassy in France, sort of on loan to them by the Prime Minister, and his information gathering didn’t go farther than buying all the local magical newspapers. They really had to develop a magical secret service, one couldn’t wage a war without information, Harry thought. But for now they had a crisis to deal with. Not an existential crisis, if one looked at it without bias, but a crisis nonetheless, and with possible consequences that went further than the fate of the Delacours.

The family had not been betraying France to Wizarding Britain, no one knew that better than Harry and Hermione, but not many would believe that. If the Delacours were executed for treason anyone else who was considering helping the muggleborn government of Wizarding Britain would think twice, and quite a number would think that the British had sacrificed the Delacours since they were a pureblood family - Harry knew how stupid and fickle wizards, people could be. On the other hand, if they were saved, this might cause sympathizers to become more active. Not to mention that their aforementioned lack of reliable sources in Magical France could likely be remedied somewhat at least should they manage to save the Delacours - Harry knew the family took their debts seriously, and they still had some influence and contacts in France. Someone had to have gotten Gabrielle away from the Aurors, after all. In conclusion, there were good reasons to rescue Fleur’s parents.

On the other hand, there were quite a few good reasons not to rescue them. First among them was the fact that no matter the public opinion, which had soared with confidence after the repelled invasion, the British were not ready to invade anything. They were still building up and training their soldiers, and the logistics of an invasion even boggled Hermione’s mind at this point. And there was the reaction of the international community, both mundane and magical. Not to mention the lack of intel - they’d go in blind, which was a recipe for disaster.

Harry blinked. Now he was even thinking like Ron talked. He shook his head. Ron certainly was adapting quickly to the life of a soldier in the combined British Magical Special Forces. Hermione had mentioned something about converts being the most faithful, and it seemed to apply to their friend.

Speaking of Ron… Harry grabbed a paper aerolane that was about to land on Hermione’s desk, ignoring her frown. His fiancée wanted to change to an electronic communication system. It was possible. The amount of magic in the Ministry was not as dense as in Hogwarts, with the building younger and the wards far less strong, and it lacked the leyline connection Hogwarts had. Some robust electronics would probably work. But Harry and a lot of others loved the paper airplanes. Despite (and also somewhat because) Hermione seeing them as inefficient toys for boys. He knew they’d change - when Hermione had set her mind on something, it was hard to stop her, and he’d not even try over something as trivial as that - but until then he’d enjoy letting paper aeroplanes fly.

“It’s from Ron. He has run the numbers and thinks he can pull off ‘the operation within the parameters set by the commander in chief’. Meaning, a small team of volunteers, mostly family and friends, so if anything goes really wrong the Ministry can deny any involvement.”

Hermione sighed. “To think all it took to get Ron to write like that was the opportunity to use a lot of muggle weapons in new ways… sometimes I wish he had gone to military school over one summer.”

“Hogwarts wouldn’t be standing today if he had heard of demolitions. Or worse, shared this with the twins,” Harry said.

“True. Though he offers us a great solution to two pressing problems.” Hermione smirked.

“Two?” Harry sounded as confused as he was.

“Two. The mission, and handling the Weasleys. Best to keep both in the family, right?” She grinned.

“You’re evil. But can he stand up to Molly?” Harry sounded doubtful.

“Ginny will support him.”

“God help us all.” Harry said.

“Don’t worry, Harry, we’ll keep an eye on the whole operation. We simply let Ron deal with the Weasley details.”

Hermione’s puns needed some work. Harry laughed anyway - in war, one had to laugh as often as one could, it would never be enough. He had that learned as a kid.

*****

Antoine Malfoy felt like laughing out loud, sitting in the study in his mansion. Everything was going fine, apart from the unfortunate death of his kin. Although in all honesty, slightly distant relatives were expendable if it served the main family. That was how his branch had become the main branch of the Malfoy family, after all.

He gently rolled the glass in his hand, then held it up, watching the deep red wine - excellent vintage, something muggles were good for - before taking a sip. Things had gone better than anticipated, even. Both Delacours had been arrested, the wizard in the presence of the Duc himself, and hadn’t that been a surprise for the traitor? And the Veela creature had not been able to escape either, lured outside their mansion’s wards and right into a trap by some fake emergency notice from Beauxbatons. The only thing that had not gone according to plan was the flight of the younger daughter. The Headmistress claimed she had disappeared, but Antoine knew better. It was the result of treason too.

But even such a small setback brought good fortune to his cause. The young Veela was of no consequence, her only use would have been entertainment, and leverage against her parents, which would be executed anyway. Her disappearance though, and right before her arrest, could and would be laid at the feet of Olympe Maxime, and with some more pressure, would see her removed as Headmistress. No matter her family’s deeds against Grindelwald, or her personal achievements, someone with such tainted blood was unsuited to lead Europe’s greatest school of magic. Blood would tell, as Britain had proven.

Antoine smiled and refilled his glass. That was a matter for the future, once the Delacours were dealt with. And once they had served their purpose. He glanced at the newspaper, detailing their arrest and incarceration. Her older daughter would be mad with fear, and by all accounts she was close to the Mudblood Minister and the Boy-Who-Lived. Very close. Antoine was certain she was the mistress of the boy, or maybe the mudblood, or both - judging by the scandalous press articles during the Triwizard Tournament affairs the mudblood was an insatiable temptress. In an case, the boy had already risked his life for the Delacours once, he’d certainly do it again, especially if the claims that he and a few friends had broken in and out of Gringotts and the British Ministry during the Blood War were true.

Antoine was convinced the boy would lead the rescue attempt. He was by far the most powerful wizard Britain had left, after the death of Voldemort and Dumbledore, and they’d be foolish to try anything without him. With a bit of luck he’d take the mudblood with him as well, she was said to be smartest witch of Britain, not that that took a lot.

The French noble grinned, flashing perfect teeth. He’d have to request a pensieve memory afterwards, from someone who was there, to enjoy the look on their faces when they realized that the two prisoners in the Bastille were polyjuiced Aurors, bait for a trap! Not even the Boy-Who-Lived could stand up to the ambush he had prepared!

*****

Ron Weasley stood up in the middle of the airplane, smiling at the mostly pale faces of his team. He still didn’t know exactly how muggle planes could fly without magic, but he didn’t care. Muggle stuff worked without magic, he knew that. He trusted his guns, why wouldn’t he trust the plane?

Judging by the way Ginny kept her hand in one pocket all the time, and was tenser than a loaded spring, his little sister had a death grip on her shrunk broom and expected the plane to fall down like the hunk of metal it was at any moment. Ron almost smirked at the sight, but schooled his features. He was in command, and it was his duty to make sure his troops were doing their job. Heckling them had to wait until the mission was over and everyone was safe back at the barracks.

So he patted Ginny’s head while he walked towards the back of the plane, from where they’d be jumping out in a bit, and checked out every member of the team. It was a risky operation. They did not know much more than the location of their target and they had an idea of the probable defenses, which could have changed since the war had broken out. On the other hand, they had the tools to do their job. The Department of Mysteries had either reengineered whatever wardbuster the Russians had used on Hogwarts, or found a relic of their own buried in whatever they had collected down there. It wasn’t as strong as the Russian one, but should not blow up either. Bill would be handling it since he was the only Weasley on the team that had no military training. Ron grinned internally at the face of his family when they had realized that he, Ron, was in command of the operation. Mum had been torn between pride and the desire to tell him how to do it. Arthur had simply smiled, and nodded, as if he had always known, and his brothers had gaped. Even more so when he had told them that neither Charlie nor George would be coming along, and Bill would only come along since he was a Gringotts Curse-Breaker, and experienced with breaking wards - which would be all he’d be doing on the mission. Civilians! They get a wand and think they know how to fight. Had he been as naive once?

At least Ginny had learned enough in her short training period to understand that she had to follow orders, and that her only job was to guard Bill, and get him to safety should things go bad for Ron and the rest of the team who’d be doing the actual assault. Bill of course thought he was to stay back to make sure Ginny would not endanger herself. Family!

One of the pilots - both didn’t know about magic, but were part of the kind of service where no questions were asked - signalled him that they were five minutes away from the target area. He nodded at him, and turned to his team.

“Five more minutes, lads, lady. Check your gear for the last time. We’ll soon jump out of a perfectly good plane!”

He, Justin and Ginny and Bill would be flying brooms down, the rest, a patrol of four blokes from the 22 Special Air Service, would parachute, and together they’d make their way to the target on foot. As insertions went this would be a cake, or so he’d been told. France had no reason to expect British soldiers dropping in from a private plane on an approved course, and the French wizards were ignorant about such matters. But then, no plan survives contact with the enemy…

“One minute.”

Ron was standing near the door now and opened it. He’d go last, following one of the blokes down on his broom. Both Bill and Ginny were perking up - apparently, the thought of jumping into the night sky with just a shrunk broom in their hand was far more comfortable than sitting in a cushy seat on a muggle plane. Go figure!

“Go go go!”

Ron smiled and saluted the copilot who would be closing the door after him before launching himself out into the sky. If the man hadn’t thought his rucksack was a parachute thanks to a little spell he’d probably pitched a fit. As it was Ron had his broom unshrunk and between his legs in seconds, and then was imitating Harry’s best Wronski Feint, diving towards the ground and enjoying the rush until he had caught up to the real parachutists and had to slow down.

*****

An hour later the team was in position and Bill was working on the wardbuster from the DoM. Bill and of course Hermione called it something more complicated, but everyone else with common sense called it a wardbuster, since it busted wards. Or should. If it didn’t this would be the shortest mission in history, but at least it wouldn’t be Ron’s fault - covering his own ass was something he had learned quite quickly in the military.

They were hiding in the bushes, close to the target. No one had seen them moving into position thanks to a combination of some magic and some training for some, and a lot of training for the rest. And thanks to no one being out here in the middle of the night.

He heard Bill mutter: “any second now… ready… yes!”

And then he felt the wards go down. At once he, Justin, and with a bit of a delay, but far more power and experience, Bill, laid Anti-Apparition, Anti-Portkey and Anti-Floo jinxes on the target. No one would be getting out there until they allowed it!

A second later his team was storming the gates - and blowing through them, guns charmed to fire without recoil or sound or need to reload at the ready. That was something the SAS blokes really loved - almost as much as bottomless pockets to carry gear in.

A pair of house elves met them on the lawn, probably alerted by the gate’s destruction. Ron gunned them down without hesitation with his machine gun. Not without regret - they were enslaved, and probably didn’t want to fight him - but he also knew how powerful those little creatures were, and that he couldn’t risk letting them attacking his team.

*****

Antoine Malfoy was woken up by the sound of an explosion, and the alert that his mansion’s wards had gone down. Who’d dare attack him? Did his cousin blame him for the death of Marcel, or had he simply decided to elevate his own branch of the family? He grabbed his wand, and tried to apparate. It didn’t work - someone had used Anti-Apparition Jinxes! He tried the Floo connection next, though he wasn’t expecting that to work either - no one daring to attack his estate and able to take down the wards would make such an amateur mistake. At least his wife was in their resort in the Alps… or was she? She wasn’t a Malfoy by birth, after all, and a bit too full of herself for his taste. Who knew who she was truly loyal to, apart from herself?

While he was asking himself who might have betrayed him he was already opening the window and summoning his broom. Disillusioned, he’d fly away, and his vengeance would be terrible. An attack on him, during times of war, was an attack on Magical France itself, after all, and therefore high treason! The Delacours would have company on the way to the scaffold!

As soon as he opened the window though he was hit by what felt like a bludger, crushing his ribs and throwing him back. Dazed he stared at the thing that had hit him, right when it exploded and filled his bedroom with nauseating gas that had his eyes and nose and throat burning even after he managed to cast a Bubblehead Charm. He barely noticed a figure with a hideous snout - a monster! - riding a broom before he was hit with a stunner and fell down again.

*****

Ron Weasley stared at the man - the Malfoy - on the floor. Despite his gas mask, he couldn’t see much in the fog created by the CS-grenade Justin had fired into the room. He sent another stunner at the man, for good measure, and then hopped inside and dragged the man out. He almost picked up the man’s broom - a Flechette 500, a high-quality French racing broom - but remembered that it might have been tampered with to only accept the owner as a rider and left it.

A short time later he and his team were in a secured room inside the mansion, and Bill was setting up a vanishing cabinet while the rest stood guard. Expensive, and not easy or cheap to replace should it get lost, but about the safest way to get the target, Malfoy, out of the country and into Britain. His team could evacuate the same way, if they were willing to lose the cabinet. For now though they were staying put. They could always flee through the cabinet, and back in Britain they’d hurry to find out if the French Malfoys followed the example of the British Malfoys and kept prisoners in their dungeon to torture. If they did… well, they needed Malfoy alive to exchange him for the Delacours, but who’d know if his wounds were caused during or after his capture?

*****

Ron had thought Hermione was scary before, but this… this was scarier than an acromantula nest. The same man he and his team had just captured was back, smiling at them and talking as if they were best friends, thanking them for the ‘realistic capture that allowed him to report back home, and still keep his cover’. To turn a man around like that… who was safe from such magics? If the French started doing that…

He hid his unease though, projecting a cool and even cheerful front for his team. “Lads, lady - good news! Thanks to our new friend here we found out that the Bastille is a trap. The real Delacours are in a Prison Spéciale in the Massive Central. Thankfully it’s a small, old prison, used to hide away prisoners that are an embarrassment to the government, nothing like Azkaban. And Malfoy here knows the keyword for their Floo connection. So, we’ll hit it, and get the Delacours out!”

Others might have protested against such a drastic and entirely improvised turn in the middle of a mission. But the blokes from the SAS were trained to improvise, and probably didn’t know how much of this was normal for the wizards. And his family and friends… well, Gryffindors charged ahead, and Hufflepuffs were loyal unto death. Mostly. So Ron smiled, even if he didn’t feel like it - he was in charge, and it would be on his head if this ended up in a disaster, no matter what Harry and Hermione would say about it being their decision. He knew he could stop this any time he wanted. But he wouldn’t - the Delacours were family, after all, and a Weasley looked after his family.

After Malfoy had explained all he knew about the prison, layout, guards, and procedures - the creep must have sent a few people there to be forgotten, seeing how much he knew - Ron and Bill transfigured some linen into robes that looked like French Auror robes. Unless one looked closely. But they would do well enough to get through the Floo without getting discovered at once. A nod to Bill had the Anti-Floo Jinx finited, and then Malfoy opened the Floo connection to the Prison Spéciale.

“Here we go.”

*****

Their disguises had held up until one of the blokes had tripped over his ‘fucking dress’ - Ron made a note to add some training in robes for infiltration purposes, and maybe wear a robe again a bit, lest he forget how to move in one himself - which was about a minute longer than Ron had thought they would remain undetected. Despite the robes though his team was faster on the draw than the French guards, and the two in the Floo room were dead before they could cast more than a weak shield. Afterwards, the British had the advantage and didn’t let it go, storming through the prison with guns and wands blazing.

The few guards present were trained to keep prisoners in their cells, not to defend against an assault by magical and muggle forces, so the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Two of his team - Justin and one bloke - were hurt, but fortunately not fatally. Ron made another note about adding a short lecture in overconfidence. For the wizards, of course - he was not as crazy to try telling the SAS blokes how to fight better. That was a job for someone else.

They set the vanishing cabinet up again and sent the Delacours - a bit roughed up, but alive, and very happy to see the Weasleys among the gun-toting and in one case blood-covered rescuers - through, followed by the wounded, then Ginny, Bill, and then then the SAS patrol. Once all but Ron and Malfoy were gone Ron handed Antoine a large bag with a small device attached to it. “Please head to the Bastille, and meet with the ambushers there, then push this button. It’s a message for them.” A quick compulsion charm would prevent the French wizard from questioning this, or checking the rucksack. Ron waited until Malfoy had vanished in the fireplace, then laid another such pack down on the floor, in front of the vanishing cabinet. After setting the timer to one minute, he too left France.

*****


	17. Repercussions

**Chapter 17: Repercussions**

“‘Underground explosion at the Place de la Bastille damages foundations of the Génie de la Liberté. Authorities investigating the cause, suspect build-up of natural gas. Traffic jams expected to last for weeks.’” Harry Potter kept his voice neutral - it wouldn’t do to tip off Hermione that he found this quite funny while he quoted from the mundane newspaper. His love though was fuming at the possible destruction of a historic monument. “‘Dozens of aurors dead by massive Blasting Curse’. According to the Tribune Magique”, he added. “The French should be feeling this. Together with their losses at the invasion I think most of their veteran Aurors are dead by now. And of course, our press is loving it. Luna’s having a ball with French Fries jokes.”

Hermione nodded and glared at the third person in her office, then sighed. “All collateral damage and possible threat to the Statute of Secrecy aside, your impulsive decision to turn Antoine Malfoy into a suicide bomber likely bought us the time to train up our combined arms teams, Ron. Even if my memory charms would last longer on magicals and we could have turned Malfoy into a true sleeper agent I doubt he would have been as useful as causing the loss of so many of their best Aurors, at least short term.”

Ron grinned, and threw his copy of the Tribune Magique on the desk. “Unless the Russians decide to attack again - they still have enough War Wizards to launch another invasion, if your information is correct.” He was still wearing his uniform from the mission.

Hermione shook her head. “I believe they won’t risk further weakening their forces at home. They still fear an attack by the Prussians, and even some of their satellite nations might rise up against them if they appear vulnerable.”

Harry frowned. “Wouldn’t that fear push them into another attack against us?”

“I don’t think so. The Russians like to prepare their attacks, they don’t like to rush off,” Ron answered. “And I do think they didn’t expect the French to lose more troops. What’s the deal with the Prussians, anyway?”

Hermione sighed. “No one knows, not even the Prussians themselves.” She wrapped one finger into a lock of her hair. “Their pureblood government is following the ICW policy almost fanatically, as they have been doing since Grindelwald was defeated, but it’s no secret that they would like to get back at the French and Russians if they could do it. Their muggleborns are ‘unruly’, to borrow the wording from the latest report, but seem as likely to rise up against their pureblood regime as to strike out against the French in support of the first muggleborn nation. The Grindelwald faction - many purebloods and muggleborns alike still believe as much in the superiority of all magicals as they believe in the equality of all magicals - lacks a clear leader and could resent us for Grindelwald’s defeat at the hands of Dumbledore, or support us for taking down the French and Russians, who paved the way for Dumbledore to Grindelwald with their corpses. It’s anybody’s guess what Prussia will do.” She sighed, then added: “The other European nations outside Russia’s sphere of influence are, more than ever after the invasion was repelled, as strictly neutral as the ICW allows. And so far, we’re still just under investigation.”

Harry nodded, and poured tea for his friend and his love before filling his own teacup. “I don’t see that changing. We made an impression with the last battle, and no one not already committed seems willing to test us. As long as we don’t appear to be bent on conquering them.”

Ron looked surprised. “Aren’t we? I mean, aren’t we planning to topple the other pureblood governments?”

Hermione sighed. “At the moment we’re simply focusing on defending Wizarding Britain. Though in order to achieve safety for us, toppling some governments might be needed - but we have to move carefully there, lest the neutral European nations band together against a perceived threat by us.”

“We have to be sneaky, got it.” Ron grinned. Before Hermione could jump on that, he changed the topic. “Did you hear anything about Gabrielle?”

Hermione apparently swallowed what lecture she was about to give, and shook her head. “No, nothing new. We don’t know anything more than that the Delacours were not able to warn her, yet she escaped the French Aurors sent to arrest her, and that it wasn’t another trap or misdirection by Antoine Malfoy. He honestly didn’t know where she was. We can only hope she’s with someone who will protect her, and get her to England.”

Harry frowned. He felt with the young girl, on the run from pureblood authorities. She couldn’t even apparate yet, from what he knew.

Ron nodded. “They had some plans. Gabrielle should have money, and Fleur’s address. But she has no real experience in the non-magical world. No mundane money or clothes.” As much as he liked Fleur’s family, they were quite typical purebloods, ignorant of such things. If Gabrielle had been prepared to travel muggle-style, she’d already be in England, or safely in another country. Not that he could fault them that much - the trio had been as ill-prepared for their Horcrux-hunt. To think they could have been living the easy life in muggle England during the hunt, safe and warm and well-fed, if there had only been some better preparations…

“We can’t really drop our portkey and floo blockades.” Harry knew Hermione regretted to say it, but the country was more important than a single girl, who might not even be planning to use either. “If she gets in by Apparition we should find her quickly. If she uses a broom… “ The witch winced. Chances were, a broom trying to enter british airspace would be destroyed. They had finally gotten a sort of airborne radar working to detect brooms.

“It all depends on whoever she is with. Hopefully a smart one,” Ron said. Privately he wondered if the Delacours had any muggleborn friends. That would have been perfect.

*****

Percy Weasley was feeling rather lucky that Bill was saddled with making Fleur see that she couldn’t head to France right now to search for her missing sister. Her parents were no less anxious about their daughter, but after their fortunately brief stay in the French Prison Spéciale, they were in no shape to actually travel, and therefore it was easier to convince them not to do anything foolish. Marginally easier. He hoped Molly would be able to contain them once they were better. It wouldn’t do much for the relations between the Delacours and Molly Weasley, but it would do wonders for Britain, the war, and his career. Besides, as much as he loved his mother, she would never really get along well with the elder Delacours. Not least because he suspected that Madame Delacour was actually as headstrong as Molly, but simply had a slightly less volatile temperament. Which was a very good thing, given what Veelas who were angered could do.

They were at the Shell Cottage, which had been expanded by two more rooms for Fleur’s family. Though since they had been held up at the Ministry, the rooms had been taken over by the Weasley clan during the night - as was usual, almost the whole family had come together in this crisis. Percy had slept a few hours in one room, waiting for the Delacours to be released from the tender care of St Mungo’s Healers. They’d be in and out of the Ministry for a few weeks, he knew, to share what knowledge they had about the current French government and forces - interrogated was too strong a word among friends. Percy himself was expected at the Ministry too, and he would have been glad for the excuse to leave if he wasn’t a bit doubting of Bill’s ability to keep Fleur from rushing off. Apart from the obvious disastrous consequences of such a foolish act, it would reflect badly on him as well. Still, he was needed in preparing the latest petition to the ICW. Britain was pushing to have the invasion declared as an act of war, and while he didn’t think the ICW would actually rule that way and withdraw its sanction of the French and Russian ‘investigation’, it would serve as a nice counter to their claims of British aggression.

He tried not to think about Gabrielle while he mentally prepared his arguments again - everyone had a vital task these times, and his was not the rescue of a girl on the run. That was more suited to Ron. Whimsically, he wondered if Ron actually would be involved in saving the girl, and if she’d crush on his brother as hard as she had crushed on Harry back in the tournament days. That would offer tons of opportunities to tease Ron about - in a subtle way, of course. He was not as blatant as his brothers. His brother, he corrected himself, and felt the familiar pain of Fred’s death.

*****

What would Harry Potter do? Gabrielle Delacour was asking herself that question while walking through the narrow alleys of Marseille’s old quarters, trying to stick to the shadows. She usually was asking herself what Fleur, her big sister, would do, but this seemed more a situation for Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. Yesterday, Aurors had come to school to arrest her. If she had not been hiding from the other students who called her parents ‘traitors’, and been near the gates, she’d have had no warning. Fortunately, the Auror leader had very loudly demanded to be led to her when he had been met by a teacher, and that had allowed her to escape them in the nick of time through an old underground tunnel, leaving the school while they were searching for her.

Things had not gone well after that. According to the plans her family had made, Gabrielle had been supposed to head to Marseille by portkey, and then meet up with her cousin twice removed, Amélie, who had a small shop there. Only Amélie had not been in her shop when Gabrielle had arrived. Instead, a few rather nasty looking men had been there, as she had seen through the windows, rooting through the shop’s stock. Gabrielle had quickly turned around, and gone towards a café, hoping she’d catch her cousin, but then the wizarding wireless had broken the news that her family had been arrested for treason, and she suddenly felt quite exposed, even though she was not wearing her school robes but a used cloak, sure that everyone would spot her and chase her, and …

So she had left Marseille’s magic quarter and entered the muggle town. Or city. Only to discover that she was standing out there - no one was wearing robes. And when she tried to buy some clothes to better fit in, they had called her a thief when they had seen her coins, and she had to run away again. Muggles were even scarier than she had thought! What would Harry do in her situation? Ride his Firebolt to safety, of course! But she had no Firebolt. And she wasn’t sure she’d be able to reach England with a broom.

“Hey, girl, are you lost?”

A voice made her freeze up - was it the muggle Aurors? A frantic look revealed it to be a boy, a bit older than her, muggle.

“You look lost. Did you run away from home? I can help you.” He smiled in a what he thought was friendly manner, and slowly walked towards her. But while Gabrielle was not very experienced with the muggle world, her mother had made sure that she knew about men, and what many of them wanted from a Veela. And while that boy probably was no agent of a Barbary Coast slaver, he probably had similar designs for her. She could stun him and run, but the trace on her wand would likely bring trouble. On the other hand, she was a Veela, and the boy likely knew the muggle world, especially the unsavory parts of it. He could be useful…

So she beamed at him, dazzling him with her smile, and acted as if she had just met a friend. “Oh, yes. Can you help me?” She kept smiling, but had already started to dance. He didn’t answer, but simply stared at her with a slack-jawed expression, just like Fleur had described.

After a few minutes she stopped dancing, and started to explain to the boy, who was now very eager to do anything to please her, what she needed. She was pretty sure Harry wouldn’t have done that, but he wasn’t a Veela.

A few hours later Gabrielle was sitting in a train to Paris, where she would change into a train that would transport her directly to London, through a gigantic tunnel under the sea! Who’d have known muggles could do such a thing? And their trains didn’t even produce smoke, and went far faster than she thought possible. She still felt quite uncomfortable in the muggle clothes she wore, but Henry, her charmed helper, had assured her all girls as pretty as she was wore such clothes when he bought them for you. He had been right about the hair dye - her blonde hair was now dark as the night - and she had seen similar clothes on a few travelers, even though she got a lot of stares, so she gave him the benefit of the doubt. And if Fleur saw her like this… she giggled at her sister’s likely reaction while counting the muggle money Henry had given her in exchange for her coins. Paper money! Muggles couldn’t be very bright if they accepted such money instead of gold, but as long as it got her to her family, and got her food for the voyage, she wouldn’t complain. Too bad she hadn’t learned the Gemino Charm yet, or she could have made more money!

*****

Marie d’Orléans was staring at the Daily Prophet in shock. The British bastards had blown up the Bastille? Killed dozens of Aurors? How was that possible, the Bastille was the most secure prison of the world! She read further, and suddenly all made sense. Treason! The Delacours had betrayed her father, had betrayed France, and caused so many deaths! That was why the British had rescued them. She read a bit more, and almost cursed out loud - Fleur Delacour had married into the family of Ronald Weasley! Of course, that explained how some British buffoon had managed to defeat the best French Flyers, thanks to treason again! But they’d pay! She’d find them, and they’d pay. She studied the article again. Not much information about the Weasleys there, and nothing about their home mansion. No surprise there - not even the British would be stupid enough to share such information in times of war. Then she spotted an ad in the paper. “Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes?” She wondered aloud. A shop in Diagon Alley? She’d have to be very careful, but if she managed to capture that Weasley he’d lead her to Ronald, or Fleur, or both...

*****

Albert Nott fell more than lay down on his bunk. He felt as if he had been transported back into his time as a recruit, every muscle ached. That slave driver of a training officer ran them ragged. The only good thing about this was that the other soldiers were as badly off, and the wizards were in worse shape.

A few weeks ago he had been working a cushy job as a liaison between the muggle and wizard government, now he was training for frontline combat as part of one of the combined arms strike teams. Just his luck, as usual. And he was not even with his mates from his old unit, but some lads from the SAS. They made him look like a lazy wizard as they went through training, learning how to fight and kill wizards and witches. That was a good thing, of course - Nott liked killing wizards. He had missed out on killing his family, but killing French purebloods sounded almost as good. And he wanted to kill someone or something, if only to relieve some frustration. Almost his whole life he had tried to fit into the muggle world, and when he felt as if he had managed, he suddenly was ‘the squib’ again. He didn’t fit in with either the muggle soldiers or the wizards, given his background. Unlike the soldiers he knew about magic better than many muggleborn, having grown up in a pureblood magical family. Unlike the wizards, he was a soldier, not some wand-waving pansy.

The only other good thing was that his service in a combined arms team would make it quite likely that he’d inherit the Nott estate. If he survived, of course. They’d be facing half of Europe soon enough, with only their rifles and some half-trained wizard kids as support. Of course, he had faced worse odds, and given what he heard from others, and seen in training, those wizards in charge of training knew what they were doing. That Weasley kid was a maniac, always coming up with new and easy ways to kill wizards. Nott couldn’t wait to use a charmed machine gun himself - endless ammo, no recoil, and since he was a squib, he could maybe even use a magical sight. He smiled as sleep claimed him.

*****

Hans Steiner, current Chancellor of Magical Prussia, rubbed the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming, and made sure he had a potion ready. He glanced at his cabinet. They too looked worn. “So, to sum up what we just heard: Almost all our citizens are ready and eager for war, the only question is whether they will wage war against each other, against us, or against France.” Us meant the German pureblood government, of course, and those supporting it. Unfortunately, that didn’t include that many Prussians.

The Minister for Foreign Affairs, Ottokar Mannstein, held his hand up. “Don’t forget the migrants from the other German nations. Many of them are coming to Prussia with the explicit desire to join the expected mayhem.” He didn’t hide his sneer. “Ruffians, all of them.”

Herbert Kruge, the Minister for the Interior nodded. “Both the Muggleborn Movement and the Grindelwald Faction are becoming more and more militant, and their leaders, such as they have leaders, are starting to lose what control they had.”

“Any chance to have them go at each other?” Hans asked, It would be a bloodbath, but it would kill mostly Grindelwald’s blood traitors and the mudbloods on both sides.

Kruge shook his head. “I don’t have enough spies there, and none in the right positions to set such a conflict up. The Grindelwald faction is too splintered, and the Movement…” He trailed off.

Hans knew what he meant. No mudblood willing to betray their cause there, not with the vows set up and all. And even if there were no vows, no real wizard could pass as a mudblood, what sane man could understand those animals? He sighed. “So… we either wage war against France, or find ourselves driven from our own country. Or worse”, he added - everyone knew what mudbloods did to purebloods after a revolution, the British had shown that, and no one here had forgotten what Grindelwald had done to his Prussian enemies.

“If we do that the Russians will attack us,” Mannstein threw in. “They’ll see us as the next Grindelwald, it’s a phobia for them.”

Hans waved the concern away. “They lost as many or more of their forces than the French did. If they attack us they can’t spare the troops to control their slave states, who will rebel. Besides, if the British mudbloods can beat off an invasion by the combined armies of the French and Russians, then what has Prussia to fear?”

“Especially with Britain not fighting us this time,” Kruge added.

Hans frowned - was that a simple reminder that Britain’s Dumbledore had beaten Grindelwald, or a subtle criticism of Steiner’s opinion of the military capabilities of Britain? He didn’t know, and ignored it. “We’ll beat France, and restore the honor of Prussia. That should shut up the Grindelwald faction. If the mudbloods still make trouble then we can deal with them.”

“And Russia?”

“Once France is beaten, Russia will back down.”

Not everyone looked convinced, but no one saw a better way to keep their power. “We’ll need a casus belli,” Hans stated, looking at Kruge.

The man frowned at the implicit questioning of his competence, and nodded. “An attack on one of our guard posts by French pursuing a supposed British agent should do it. A few good men killed in the line of duty…”

Everyone nodded. It went without saying that the dead would be mudbloods - that would help pointing the rabble at the French. Hans Steiner dismissed his cabinet, and grabbed his potion. He still had a headache, but it was getting better.

*****

Marie looked at the blatant, ugly monstrosity of a shop facade. She had thought the British had bad fashion sense, but this… this was an abomination! A crime against wizardkind! She shuddered, but steeled herself, and entered, only to jump back, her wand in hand, when a large animal head appeared next to her, shrieking.

“Sorry, sorry…. first time here?” a woman wearing quite daring, but not entirely ugly robes asked her. “Welcome to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, the best joke shop in Wizarding Britain!”

“A joke of a shop indeed.” Marie muttered, then let the salesgirl lead her around, showing one prank or joke item after another, a truly impressive demonstration of a creative but thoroughly sick mind. It did give her an opening though.

“Impressive. Did Mister Weasley make all those by himself?” She took care to keep her accent under control. The salesgirl explained that yes, all the items were created by the Weasley Brothers - George, the late Fred, and some by Ron.

Before Marie could ask if any Weasley was around, the door chimed.

“Hi May! Is George around?”

Marie turned around, and froze. She would have recognized this man even without the ugly muggle clothes he wore. Ronald Weasley had just arrived!

*****


	18. Second Front

**Chapter 18: Second Front**

“Ronald Weasley, the war ‘ero!”

Ron blinked for a moment, surprised - a very pretty girl, fawning over him? For a moment he wanted to look over his shoulder, checking if Harry was behind him, then he reasserted himself. He wasn’t the friend of the Boy-Who-Lived and the brightest witch of her age anymore, but Ron Weasley, victor of the Siege of Hogwarts. Ok, it had been a very brief siege, a single assault, actually, but it sounded better than “Hero of the Second Battle of Hogwarts”.

“To meet you ‘ere, what an ‘onor!” The girl certainly was excited, and if she hadn’t been wearing rather conservative muggle clothes - a skirt that hit her calves, and a blouse with long sleeves - she’d probably have been bouncing… Ron forced his thoughts away from the memory of his first night in town with the lads of his new squad, when he had discovered muggle nightclubs and bars and especially female muggle fashion and dances. That accent, like Fleur’s! No wonder he felt like he should jump for cover! It wasn’t the sudden fame, but real danger!

His wand slid out of his auror-issue wrist holster into his right hand, hidden behind his right thigh while he plastered a smile on his face. “The one and only! And whom have I the honor of addressing?” He didn’t quite bow, just nodded deeply. It wouldn’t do to leave the witch out of his sight for even a second.

“Marie Besse, from Switzerland. Zhe French-speaking part of Switzerland.”

Ron relaxed some. The Swiss were neutral, as long as the goblins were not involved. There was a blood feud between the goblins and the gnomes, and the Swiss had a long-standing alliance with the gnomes of Zurich, though no one really knew how that had started. And they did speak French in Switzerland, along with German, Italian and Latin. Anyone who knew about their Quidditch teams knew that, and who wouldn’t know about their Quidditch teams after Hans Keitel, the famous Chaser, had transferred to the Zürich Griffons two years ago? Ron had searched for a memory of his first match against the Bears of Berne for months even without having access to a pensieve.

He noticed how nervous and tense the girl was - she probably was mistaken for a French Witch all the time, poor thing. No wonder she introduced herself that way. Time to put on the Weasley charm. “And what brought such a pretty girl all the way over to our joke shop?”

“Ah, I am visiting England. Muggle England, a relative of mine went to zhe university here. I know I should have avoided the Magical District, with zhe war going on, and all, but…” she shrugged, and smiled at him, looking quite vulnerable.

Ron squashed the remaining unease in his gut and smiled back. He wasn’t taking advantage of a foreign witch in a strange land who was feeling lonely, he was offering to escort a guest in his country so she would not be mistaken for an enemy. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, really. “I understand, it’s hard to go all muggle. But let me assure you, Britain is safe. The French lost so many of their Aurors, they cannot afford another attack, and the Russians are in the same boat.”

That made her wince, and he felt like slapping himself - of course she be taken aback, she was no soldier, and talk of war and killing would frighten her! He hurried to give Marie a quick tour of the shop, pointing out a few choice items and how they had been tested on him by the twi… by George. His self-deprecating tales had the girl laughing soon, and he used the opportunity to invite her to … was it dinner time already? Time flew in the company of a pretty witch who thought you were the biggest hero since Harry Potter. Come to think of, she hadn’t once asked him after Harry or Hermione… he felt even better when he offered her his arm, his wand had been returned to his holster long ago without anyone being the wiser.

They left the Joke shop and walked towards the Leaky Cauldron - not to eat there, just to pass through. Ron was planning to invite her to dinner on the muggle side, he didn’t want to deal with the press or other not so pretty fans. The teasing from his friends, who May was sure to inform, would be bad enough already. After entering London proper, Ron ran out of joke shop tales. He briefly considered telling stories of his time at Hogwarts, but quickly dropped the thought - much of his best stories were quite violent, and Marie still flinched whenever they were reminded of the current war, like when they had passed the newsstand with the latest Daily Prophet, with big pictures of the Bastille. And the other stories were a bit too unflattering for his taste, and might prompt her to ask about Harry and Hermione. He’d rather talk about himself, but that was not that attractive, or so he had learned. But there was one topic that never failed to provide for an engaging topic: “So, what do you think of the latest picks of Jean-Paul Meyer?”

When Marie looked lost, he frowned - how could a Swiss not know the third-best coach in their league? The Quidditch Club Basel was sure to enter the international league one of those seasons, as soon as the Griffons’ aging seeker retired…

He was quite surprised when Marie ripped her arm away from him and a wand appeared in her right hand from a hidden wrist holster. Not surprised enough to be hit by her stunner, though. He dove to the side, rolled over his shoulder, and came up with his wand in hand and a spell on his lips.

*****

Marie d’Orléans cursed and sent another stunner after the green-clad murderer. She didn’t know how he had seen through her cover, that last question had to have been a test somehow, but she wouldn’t let him get away! He was alone, away from his friends and infernal machines, and without the muggle guns he used, it was just her against him, and she was skilled duellist fighting to avenge her dearest friend. Snarling, she stepped to the side, a Body-Binding Curse missing her by inches, and sent a series of red spells at her nemesis. They were not stunners, just flashy lights, but he wouldn’t know that, and dodge right into her silent Reductor Curse. Merde Alors! He had shielded against that!

Ducking under a pair of Piercing Curses, she got more creative and turned the air around him poisonous while distracting him with another series of green flashes that hemmed him in despite his shield. She knew that she should flee, British reinforcements would be here any minute, but all she could think about was killing that beast. No, making him suffer before his death!

There, he was coughing, stumbling! The poison had gotten to him. While he was casting a Bubblehead Charm - late, but not too late - and his shield flickered and disappeared, she took the opportunity and hit him with a Disarming Charm. She grinned in triumph when she snatched his wand out of the air, and started to walk towards the coughing, helpless murderer, savoring the moment. A Piercing Curse, even a Bone-Breaking Curse, was too good for him. She was about to cast a Blood-Boiling Curse when the redhead rolled to his side, something metallic in his hand glinting in the dim light of the night.

Marie was still in the process of casting when the first bullet from Ron’s L9A1 hit her. She hit the ground seconds before the fast response team apparated in.

*****

“How is he?” Harry Potter had barely entered the office when Hermione shot up from her seat. She was biting her lower lip, obviously worried. Even though magic healing could work miracles, dark magic could also cause wounds that couldn’t be healed at all - sometimes not even using non-magical methods. At least with the fall of pureblood prejudice, St. Mungo’s Healers now routinely used non-magical techniques that most of them had spurned before, even after Arthur Weasley had been saved by them during the Blood War. She would have been in St. Mungo’s herself, but with Ron attacked by an assassin it was deemed too dangerous to have both her and Harry there with Ron.

Harry smiled reassuringly and closed the door. “He’s fine. He was poisoned, but the Healers dealt with it. No lasting damage - he is awake already, and he’ll be out and about in a day or two. The whole family is there, and George was just cracking jokes about him being a ‘lady killer’ when I left.”

The surviving twin’s humor had certainly darkened a lot since the Battle of Hogwarts. The Delacours had been there as well - no surprise, not only was Ron family, but he had personally saved the elder Delacours. A fact that young Gabrielle had taken to heart, or so Harry thought - she had been looking at Ron with the same expression she had been looking at him after the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. He smirked at the memory. Gabrielle’s safe arrival had been such a relief for the two families, who had feared the worst, that most had not really cared about the exact means the little Veela had used to save herself even though she proudly told her story. If she kept her new crush then Ron would be in for some interesting times in the next few years. Ah well, he grew up with Ginny and the twins, he probably could handle it.

“And the assassin?” Relief in Hermione’s voice turned into viciousness.

“Hit by two bullets, but will survive as well. Under guard in a special room.”

“Good. We need to know if more of them are here, and what their orders are.” She held a hand up and stalled Harry’s remark. “I know. She shouldn’t know that, and purebloods are quite experienced with assassinations, but the possibility is there that they made a mistake.”

Harry nodded. “We’ll find out as soon as she’s fit enough for Veritaserum.” He didn’t add that they’d not feel safe until then, and likely not afterwards. They had expected such an act - purebloods took war personally - but it still came as a shock, to catch Ron like that… He hugged Hermione and they remained like that for a bit, finding comfort in each other.

“You know, Ron will be insufferable for a while,” he added.

“Why?”

“Apparently he unmasked her thanks to his knowledge of Swiss Quidditch League coaches.”

“But why would she… the accent, of course!” Hermione grinned. “You’re right. He might even try to make us study Quidditch for our own safety. Merlin!”

Both laughed at the role reversal they imagined, Ron pushing for more studying, Hermione trying to avoid it. Then they grew serious again, and sat down.

“What’s behind this report about one of our agents getting pursued into Prussia?” Harry pulled up a Prussian Newspaper.

“I don’t know of any of our agents - we do not have many, anyway - who could have been involved in this. Due to the volatile political situation, all our escape protocols explicitly do not involve Prussia in any shape or form,” Hermione explained.

“So… our agent must have been very desperate to do that, or found out something really important. Or both.” Harry speculated. “Or…”

“Or there never was one of our agents. The French claim none of their Aurors would have violated the borders like that, and report that one of their patrols went missing on French Soil. And yet there are two dead French Aurors in Prussia, whose pictures and names were released, and supposedly two dead Prussians, whose identities were not revealed to protect their families.”

“You suspect a set-up?”

“Yes. Prussian newspapers have been focusing on the French actions in the war for a while. They took pains to not mention blood status at all, but painted the French as a perfidious aggressor trying to conquer a country weakened from civil war.” Hermione pointed to a staple of newspapers on a corner of her desk.

Harry glanced over, briefly smirking at the sight of Prussian wizarding pictures trying to escape their frames so they could attack the pictures in the French newspapers. His new glasses were wonderful, even without the additional charms he saw the world so much better these days. “And of course, with such a threat at their door, only traitors would start civil unrest in their own country.”

Hermione nodded. “But it might go further than simply keeping the peace in Prussia. They’ve been rolling out some of Grindelwald’s veterans at public events.”

Harry took a hissing breath. “You mean…”

Hermione nodded. “I think they’ll attack the French.”

Harry suppressed the curse that came to his lips. “That will complicate the situation. A lot.”

“Yes. And if the Russians attack them...” Purebloods against purebloods. With Grindelwald’s army on the march again, most of Magical Europe would be engulfed by war.

“There goes our hope that we could beat the French with our new forces and end the war.”

“Yes.”

“Bugger!”

“Harry, language!”

*****

The Duc d’Orléans was fuming, and only his legendary inscrutable countenance kept him from lashing out with his magic and wrecking his office. That didn’t keep him from expressing his anger verbally though. “Those cowards stab us in the back while we are fighting their fight? Don’t those fools realize that if France falls, then Pureblood Europe falls as well? They’ll be next, half their country’s mudbloods are just waiting for the opportunity!”

He paced in front of his elegant desk. “As if anyone would believe their lies about French provocation, as if we’d invade our neighbours like that! It is so obvious, even the ICW must see that!” He huffed. If only Antoine hadn’t been killed by that despicable trap… he had known how to work the ICW. His successor was competent, but hadn’t yet made all the contacts Antoine had had. And that damnable Steiner from Prussia was pulling strings to have the ICW treat this treacherous attack as a simple war, not an attempt to hinder the ICW mission of France and Russia. The Duc sighed. Sooner or later Magical Europe would unite against the Prussians, crushing the successors of Grindelwald, but he feared it would not be in time to save his nation.

He turned to his advisors, who had remained silent while he vented his anger. “What is Russia doing? Why haven’t they attacked Prussia yet?” He glared at Jerome De Gruy as if it was his ambassador’s fault that the Russians were stalling.

“Sire, they are mobilizing, but they too suffered losses, and they need more time.” De Gruy answered, then added: “Or so they claim. Their vassal states are a bit slow to provide troops according to rumors.” Slower than one would expect from Russians, and that was saying something - the Russians were slow to act, but hard to stop once they were moving.

Again, the Duc doubted the Russians would act quickly enough to save his nation. They possibly were planning to hit the Prussians right after they had spent themselves destroying France. The Russians couldn’t stall forever, at some point they had to act or their plan would be revealed to everyone, but France couldn’t afford to wait that long. He needed more time. Recruiting and training more aurors to replace his losses would take too long. ‘Ask me for anything but time’, indeed.

He sighed. He saw only one possibility to save his nation, even though it brought the risk of destroying France. “I order a levée en masse.”

Most of his advisors gasped, even though anyone could see they had no choice. “Sire…” Guillaume Tierce started, only to fall silent when the Duc met his eyes.

“I know the risk. But we have no choice. France is facing destruction at the hands of our ancient enemy. We need everyone, even the mudbloods, to save her!” He paced again. “Make sure to recruit the mudbloods first, and use them as soon as possible. Do not waste training on them, we will use them to stop the Prussians long enough to buy time to recruit and train more pureblood Aurors.”

“Sire… a number of the mudbloods will suspect something, if they are sent into battle with minimal training and without purebloods at their side.”

“There are enough half-bloods and blood traitors that can be spared. Take them and the worst mudbloods, pick trustworthy officers, and send them into Prussia, to attack their villages. Even untrained mudbloods will force the Prussians to redeploy troops to protect their enclaves.” No one had to say out loud that the Prussians would not take many prisoners after such acts. “We’ll blame it on mudbloods going out of control, later, and can execute the survivors, if there are any, to placate the international community.” And they could get rid of more of their troublesome subjects that way.

The Duc glanced at his advisors. Whatever doubts in his fitness to rule France in this crisis they might have had, planted and nurtured by the late Antoine Malfoy, should have died in this moment. He was the Duc, the leader and ruler of Magical France, strong, decisive and cunning. Some of his advisors should even now wonder if Antoine Malfoy had actually died at the hands of the British, or if he had used the opportunity to get rid of a rival. With a wave of his hand he sent them out, to execute his orders.

Once he was alone in his office the Duc sat down behind his desk and rubbed his eyes. He was risking a lot on this, but he saw no other way. Any alternative would lead to his downfall, at the very least. If the mudbloods took power in France… He couldn’t let that happen to his family. He had already lost his heir, and he still had no news about the fate of his dear Marie. To lose even more of his family… he would let all of France burn before he allowed that!

*****

Francois Verrier was staring at the village in front of him. A pittoresque German village, with small, well-tended houses lining a few cobblestone streets. And he was to destroy it? He didn’t see any Prussian Aurors around at all. If they even were in Prussia, and not in one of the smaller German nations. With Prussia’s enclaves spread out all over Germany, no one could tell where it began and ended.

What was the reason for this attack? When he had been called up in the levée en masse, he had expected to defend France against the hordes of Grindelwald. To gallantly fight against mass-murdering dark wizards. Not to… raze a village.

He glanced to the side, to his friend Remi. Remi was looking as ill at ease as he felt. And yet they were walking ahead, together with another dozen muggleborns. Behind them their commander, a pureblood noble named Barras de Lavign, was marching, wand ready. To curse any straggler, as he had done in ‘training’, as the few days they had spent refreshing their defense lessons and getting ‘disciplined’ by purebloods had been called. And yet they were now official Aurors. It hadn’t really served any point other than to remind Francois why he hated the real Aurors. Hated how they hassled muggleborns and let purebloods go. Hated their airs, their arrogance, their bigotry, and the liberties they took with pretty girls like his sister. Only the thought of his sister falling prey to Grindelwald’s monsters had kept him going. The Prussians had already wiped out one village, or so the newspapers claimed. It had been a pureblood village in Northern France, far away from Paris, where Francois lived with his muggle parents, so he didn’t know anyone affected by the war yet.

They were inside the village’s Anti-Muggle wards now. Well-tended lawns and gardens replaced the fields. Just a bit further and they’d be inside the village proper. Francois had wondered why they were not attacking at night, but had been told that they wouldn’t want enemies to escape under the cover of darkness. Now he wondered what enemies they were talking about - he still hadn’t seen any. He spotted blond hair behind a bush. A very small bush. Ambush? He stopped and drew his wand. Remi next to him did the same, nervously wetting his lips.

“Move, you cowards!” de Lavign was bellowing, and a stinging hex to the backside made Remi yelp.

“Sir, there’s someone behind the bush, ahead.” Francois pointed towards the small bush. De Lavign sent a stinging hex at him, then glanced at the bush himself.

“Indeed. Bombarda!”

The bush blew up, and a small body was thrown into the air, landing hard on the road. Francois realized, horror-struck, that it was a little girl, not yet of wand age! She was hurt badly, bleeding and crying, her clothes torn by the force of the spell. Fortunately, de Lavign was a weak wizard. If Francois or Remi had cast a bombarda the girl wouldn’t have survived. Francois was starting towards her, preparing a healing spell, when a Piercing Curse flew past him and killed her. The young muggleborn man gaped, and whirled around, staring at the grinning pureblood killer.

De Lavign was laughing. “First blood goes to me, mudbloods! Now stop shaking in your boots, and get moving, you cowards! There’s more where that came from!”

Francois’s Bone-Breaking Curse tore into the man and ended his laughter, but not his life. Remi’s Piercing Curse did that a second later. The two were breathing heavily, shivering. They had just seen a girl get murdered, and killed a man - one of their own side, even. Or…

Francois finally realized why they were sent here with minimal training. He looked at the rest of his group, almost all muggleborns like him. “We’ve been set up! Those pureblood bastards are trying to get us killed!”

Remi got it first and started cursing. The others needed a bit more time, but between the dead girl and her dead killer, no one took long.

Francois spoke up again: “We can’t go back. We can’t stay here.” Purebloods would have been lost in this situation. Easy prey. But they were mostly muggleborns, more at home in the real world than in the Magical Enclaves. They could not return to Magical France, but returning to France would be easy enough.

*****

The dead girl was discovered soon after she missed lunch. German Aurors called in quickly found out that the dead man in a french Auror robe was her killer - his wand proved that - but didn’t find any trace of his killer. The case was solved a few days later, when German newspapers reprinted a story released in an underground newspaper in Magical France that called on French muggleborns to desert and not fight for the purebloods.

*****


	19. The State of the War

**Chapter 19: The State of the War**

As had become very common, the Duc d’Orléans was pacing in his office in front of his advisors. They didn’t show anything but respect, but he was certain they were blaming him for the current predicament Magical France was in, and likely were plotting to use the situation to remove him and end his dynasty. His nation was full of traitors! He would have cursed them, but he needed them. The recent weeks had greatly hurt his Grande Nation. Hurt by the perfidy of the British mudbloods, then stabbed in the back by the Prussians and their German bootlickers and now betrayed from within!

At least the Russians, finally, had attacked Prussia. The pressure on France had lessened, but not by enough. Fortunately the mudbloods in Britain had been proven too weak to exploit the opportunity their perfidious attack on the Bastille had created. They hadn’t done anything but some skirmishing over the channel since then. He scoffed. As expected, those peasants could only hole up in their lairs, like vermin, but were not brave enough to face their betters in open combat! But even the most craven vermin would come forth and attack if their enemy was wounded enough.

But that had not been the worst blow. Those mudbloods granted the privilege to become Aurors had abandoned France in the hour of her greatest need! Revealing themselves as worthless cowards, they had fled when sent into combat, some even murdered the brave pureblood officers who tried to stop them! But that had not been the end of their treason! No, they had not just abandoned their duty, they had started to fight against France, trying to incite more mudbloods to follow their example and dispersing the enemy propaganda!

The Duc swore that there would be a reckoning, and his enemies, all his enemies, would pay in blood for their transgressions! He turned to his advisors, glaring. “We are surrounded by enemies. And while our brave wizards and witches have fought them to a standstill, protecting our nation, we are not yet saved. We cannot win this war while traitors and cowards weaken our ranks! And what are you doing about it?”

Most of his advisors had the grace to look ashamed - they had failed in their duty to France, after all - but Guillaume Tierce met his eyes. “Sire… I have a plan how to deal with the traitors, and make them serve France.”

The Duc listened, and smiled.

*****

Francois Verrier stared at the front page of the ‘Heures Magiques’ with a growing sense of horror filling him. They couldn’t… they wouldn’t… But the headline did not change. The government of Magical France had taken the families of all muggleborn Aurors hostage. Should they ‘not do their duty’, then the families would be punished in their stead - by execution.

His friend Remi, who had been preparing a new leaflet with him, urging more muggleborns to desert, when they had received the latest newspaper, shared his horror. “Do you think our families…” he trailed off, not wanting to say it out loud.

“We have to check,” Francois answered. He glanced at the phone in their flat, then shook his head. “Not from here though… the inbred idiots might be stupid, but we can’t count on them to remain too stupid to understand technology forever.”

A quick Apparition later they were inside a phone booth, dialing. Francois waited, holding his breath. His mother and father should be at home at this time. They did not answer the call though. He trembled, telling himself they could have stepped out… could be, would be back soon. Remi tried to call his muggle family, without success. Francois thought of his sister, Désirée, who was at Beauxbatons. He couldn’t call her, and any owl would be too slow, far too slow. And the floos were monitored… not for the first time he cursed the pureblood aversion towards modern technology. He could apparate, of course, and break into the chateau… it would be a risk, but… Remi’s hand on his shoulder interrupted his thoughts.

“She’ll have gotten the newspaper already. She’s smart, and she’ll flee.” Remi sounded confident, but both knew that while the purebloods were ignorant, they were not that stupid to let the newspapers warn the victims of their latest atrocity so they could save themselves.

Francois shook his head, tears running down his cheek. “I never thought they’d go that far… to strike at our families… I should have known, the pureblood mass-murdered us in Britain!” The young wizard struck the phone booth’s side with his fist, again and again, until his knuckles were bleeding. It didn’t help. He didn’t notice Remi heal his broken hand with a flick of his wand.

His friend spoke up. “I know some did not believe us, not with the boches repeating our story, but this… every muggleborn will now know. They won’t call us traitors anymore. Not after this.”

“If we surrender….”

Remi shook his head. “We cannot give ourselves up, or they’ll continue, forcing more of us to die for them. And they’ll kill us all anyway, once they have won. They wanted to do it in Britain already.”

Part of Francois felt like screaming at Remi but, hating himself for it, he nodded. The purebloods had gone too far. “They’ll pay. They’ll all pay. The British had the right idea - we won’t be safe until they are all dead.”

They left the phone booth. Remi was already making plans. “We’ll start killing those fils de putains. They’ll regret what they have done.”

Francois shook his head. “We can’t just start killing them. We need to be organized. We’ll have to contact the British, they managed to kill their purebloods.” He took another step. “Merlin! We’ll have to contact the Président. If they took our families, they took French citizens. French non-magical citizens! They can’t do that!”

“But what can the government of the republic do? They have no magic, and the purebloods can control the Président...”

“Not if we protect him.” Francois smiled, but with cruel expression. “We’ll organize our friends. Form a resistance cell. Then find out who is controlling the Président, and then we strike.”

Remi should have called him a fool, ruled by his anger and frustration and desperation. Instead he grinned. “And they’ll pay.”

*****

The mood in the meeting of the cabinet of Hans Steiner, Chancellor of Magical Prussia, was tense. Everyone knew that their attack into France had met with heavier resistance than expected. Now, with the Russian attacking Prussia, and the French not yet beaten, Magical Prussia was in a rather uncomfortable situation. Hans Steiner remembered some tales about a muggle World War, which sounded similar to their current situation, but dismissed them. Muggles didn’t matter.

He couldn’t worry about muggle history anyway - he had to be concerned about internal developments. He knew who would take the blame if those developments became a problem. “Herbert,” he addressed his Minister for the Interiour, Kruge, “please explain why our mudbloods are still not content with us beating the French.” He spoke politely and almost friendly, but no pureblood would miss the anger behind his manners. Especially not Kruge.

“Part of the reason for that is that we haven’t yet actually beaten the French.”

Kruge had guts, Hans had to acknowledge that - the Chancellor was responsible for the war, at least in the eyes of the population. And since they didn’t have the French beaten yet - in his opinion that was mostly the fault of the British mudbloods, who should have kept the pressure up after their successful attack on the Bastille, instead of stopping most offensive actions right when Prussia attacked - even the press started to question the progress of the war, especially with the Russians now getting involved. Hans suspected that Kruge was not quite as efficient in controlling the press as he should be. Maybe he was preparing a coup? He didn’t think Kruge had much of a following, both the mudbloods and the Grindelwald faction saw him as an oppressor since he controlled the Aurors who had been keeping both factions in check for so long.

“Our victory over the French is just a matter of time. We’ve repulsed their terror attacks on our villages and while we’re holding the Russians at bay without weakening our forces in a significant way, the French are already scraping the bottom of the barrel, throwing barely-trained mudbloods at us who desert at the first sign of our aurors. If not for the sudden weakness of the British mudbloods we’d already dine in Paris.”

Hans spoke with more confidence than he had. That sudden halt of the British attacks had come a bit too convenient. He didn’t think the mudblood leaders, children still and barely educated if his reports about the quality of the instructors at Hogwarts were correct, would be able to plan such a move, not with the fire and brimstone fanaticism they were portraying through their press. They probably were simply spent already. The mudbloods had been almost all killed off during the reign of the last Dark Lord, then had fought in their revolution, and then had to fight against both France and Russia. That would have taken a toll even from pureblood forces. Untrained mudblood rabble had to have suffered grave losses in those battles. At this point they probably had not enough wizards - if one could call half-trained mudbloods that - left to do more than keep control of their country. Ripe for the picking, if one had a just cause to attack, once France and Russia had been dealt with.

“That may be the case, but while the desertions by their mudbloods hurt the French, aided by our propaganda efforts, it seems our own mudbloods have drawn some parallels between the French and our forces. While there have not been large-scale desertions, there has been unrest, and officers report that their orders are being questioned. And then there’s the death of one of our more aggressive officers, who seems a tad suspect.” Kruge didn’t have to point out that the officer was a pureblood - there were only a few token mudblood officers, to parade around to make the rest shut up about discrimination.

“Such things happen in war. As long as they fight the enemy we can handle it. A few officers who went too far in disciplining their troops are a small price to pay for victory.” Hans waved away the concerns of his minister. Those aggressive officers likely were members of Grindelwald’s faction anyway, eager to avenge his defeat. “How are things at the Russian front?”

“We’ve successfully evacuated two villages that came under attack, and routed the Russian forces afterwards.” No one pointed out that the Russians had no reason to stick around in an empty village. “We’ve struck back at one of their staging areas in Poland, which disrupted their plans for further attacks.” Hopefully.

“What about the vassal states of the Russians? How are our efforts at inciting them to rebel doing?” That was where the war on the Eastern front would be decided, Hans knew that. If they managed to get enough of the other eastern countries to rebel against their Russian overlords Russia would have to sue for peace to be able to deal with them. And Prussia would be able to pick a few countries to ‘protect’...

“We are not making as much progress as we hoped. The Russians portray us as Grindelwald’s heirs, and none of the other countries have forgotten the last war,” Ottokar Mannstein explained.

Hans frowned. They couldn’t really fight that perception without alienating half their own country. But if the slavs all stuck with Russia, even beating France wouldn’t guarantee victory. Not even Grindelwald had managed to beat Russia, after all. “And what are you doing about that?” It was Mannstein’s duty, after all, to handle foreign countries.

The man hesitated. “I see only one opportunity to crack that front, but…”

“What?”

“We can rile up their mudbloods, like we do with France. Poland has lost much of their pureblood leadership against Grindelwald, and the current government is too dependent on Russia for the population, which has a bigger percentage of mudbloods than most other countries, with the exception of Britain.” Mannstein explained, but with less than his usual arrogant self-assuredness.

Hans knew he had a good reason for that. They all knew that Prussia had more half-bloods with their questionable ties to mudbloods than it should have - all because of Grindelwald’s policy of ‘equality for all magicals”’. If their own mudbloods started to get ideas above their station… but trying to fight all of Europe at once was a sure way to lose. Grindelwald had proven that - and he had been among the most powerful wizards seen in a century. “Do it. If Poland rebels we have a buffer state and can finish France at our leisure. And it might push the British to get involved as well.”

“Hans... if our mudbloods hear of this…” Kruge trailed off.

“Then you will handle it,” Hans answered, and glared at him, daring him to speak up again. He did not, and the chancellor nodded, satisfied.

*****

“We’ve got news from Beauxbatons.”

Hermione Granger entered Harry’s office where he was preparing his speech for the Wizengamot - they needed to change that name sometime, it was too archaic for the new country, or so Hermione thought. He looked up. Her face already told him that the news were not good. “The newspapers did not cover it, but we got word from some of Delacour’s contacts. The French Aurors tried to arrest all muggleborns there, to take them as hostages, and Headmistress Maxime resisted. Many of the muggleborn students escaped, but most of the teachers are either dead or arrested. For treason.”

Harry took a deep breath through clenched teeth. “The Headmistress?”

“Dead.”

He closed his eyes. “Whenever I think the worst has passed something happens to prove me wrong. The children escaped?”

“From what we know most of the ones in danger managed to get away from the school before the French Aurors took control of it. They are muggleborn, so they know how to travel in the real world, but it would take a miracle for everyone to make it safely out of the country,” Hermione said.

“Most but not all got away, and not everyone will escape. They’ll murder them,” Harry said in a flat voice. Hermione knew he was thinking of his own trial by a corrupt pureblood government that first tried to murder him, and then to destroy him for escaping the Dementors Umbridge had sent after him. She longed to comfort him, but couldn’t do more than hug him.

“They have arrested many parents and non-magical siblings of the muggleborn.” Hermione and Harry had known that from the French newspapers already.

“And they’ll murder them. Like Voldemort and his Death Eaters.” Harry gently pushed himself away from her and started to pace. “What can we do to help?”

There were some good news Hermione could tell him. “The friends of the Delacours are helping, but they can’t contact most of the people in danger. Our forces are not yet fully ready, but I was assured they could be sent into combat if needed - like for a rescue mission.”

“But we don’t have a target yet for that. And after we broke the Delacours out of prison the French will be sure to guard their hostages with all they can spare. Or prepare another trap. Bugger.”

Hermione didn’t admonish him for that outburst, she felt like cursing herself. Mostly at her own inability to help those families. “Any news from the Prussians?”

“They still expect us to attack at their command. No one is sure who holds the reins there - the purebloods or Grindelwald’s faithful. But half the continent is convinced it’s Grindelwald’s ghost at the helm of Prussia,” Harry answered,

“Literally?” Hermione raised a brow.

“I do hope not, but with some of the countries… news from our own war with Voldemort spread, and now many countries seem to expect all their dead dark lords to rise again. No prophecies so far though.” Harry grinned, though without any humor showing in his eyes. The wounds caused by that prophecy still were too raw.

“So, if we help the Prussians, we will be seen as allies of Grindelwald. And our executions of the pureblood rapists and murderers suddenly become war crimes.” Hermione scoffed.

“Correct. And our enemies in the ICW get more ammunition to use against us.”

They were interrupted by Harry’s secretary. “Chief Warlock? There’s an urgent call for you, from France. A Mister Verrier.”

*****

The Prime Minister was looking at Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. “So, you were contacted by a French muggleborn wizard asking for help against their magical government, and for help protecting the French government from magical influence. Is this request genuine?”

“We’ve sent a representative over and Verrier testified under veritaserum,” Hermione answered.

The Prime Minister once again wished he had such resources - a true truth serum. Such a thing would revolutionize the work of his intelligence services. “Can we help him?”

“Our combined forces are more or less combat ready. More training would be nice, but we can deploy them if needed. And it seems like it will be needed soon.” Granger likely could have reported the status of each squad in their combined forces, or so the Prime Minister’s file stated, so he took her word for it.

“But can we help them without causing a reaction from the ICW?” They couldn’t use their marriage plot with members of the French Government, after all.

“We’ll have to identify the pureblood forces in the entourage of the French Président, neutralize them if needed, and then contact him once he is alone.” Granger spoke calmly, as if talking about the weather and not an operation that could be called an invasion - and probably decide the war they found themselves in. “If we get his go-ahead to assist in the kidnappings of French citizens by forces unknown to the republic we could then operate in France with official approval. And if he authorizes it we can train and equip and support their muggleborn forces. We have the resources for such an operation.” They had been preparing for an invasion of Magical France without support or approval from non-magical French authorities, after all.

Potter spoke up. “If things escalate too much though, then the ICW could become concerned. We will need to portray it as a mostly internal struggle between French wizards, with some British wizards involved. If it appears as if the British Government is attacking a magical nation that could cause real problems with the ICW.”

The Prime Minister had no objection to his office not getting publicly or directly attached to such an operation. “Go ahead then. I’ll be available to talk directly with my colleague, once we can safely talk, and share experiences.”

Both of his young… colleagues looked like they’d wish to listen in on that conversation, but refrained from commenting. They were learning faster than he had thought. Most of his more experienced colleagues would not have borne the burden of a war that well - much less a war they personally had to fight and kill in. “The matter is settled then. Good luck.”

*****

Harry stood in front of the Wizengamot - which was a fine name in his opinion - and gathered his thoughts while the assembled members quieted down. Then he started his speech.

“Honored members of the Wizengamot. I stand here to inform you of the state of the war we have found ourselves forced into by enemies determined on killing us and destroying our way of life. We have been invaded, but repelled the attackers. Our forces have grown stronger since and our borders are secure. And through all we kept the Statute of Secrecy.”

Applause interrupted him.

“And yet despite their costly defeats our enemies do not stop their aggression. They are driven by hatred and bigotry, and do not care how many will die following their orders, or how their actions threaten the Statute of Secrecy. The French leader, the Duc d’Orléans, has arrested the families of all the muggleborn wizards who serve in the ranks of his army, and threatens to execute them should those Aurors displease him. Whole families, magical and non-magical, killed for the supposed faults of a muggleborn family member! We all know who else killed whole families just because one of them was a muggleborn wizard or witch. We all know who else attacked a school to get to the children inside!”

Murmurs started, soon growing louder. Harry cast an Amplifying Charm and continued.

“We fought Voldemort, and beat him. We will fight those who would follow in his footsteps, and we will defeat them as well. We will not let such crimes happen again. This is my message to the Duc d’Orléans: If you do not cease your actions, if you do not release those innocent families, if you do not stop your unacceptable attacks on us and your own people, then we will stop you, and you will regret it. We did not wish to fight this war, but Merlin help us, we will finish it!”

Thunderous applause greeted his last words, the members of the Wizengamot standing up. The authorization of extended operations by their armed forces on the continent was a mere formality. Harry just hoped they would be in time to save the hostages.

*****


	20. Vive la révolution!

**Chapter 20: Vive la révolution!**

Matthieu Thibault glanced at the whimpering girl in the cell next to his post, and had to make an effort not to wince. She was still a child, barely old enough to go to Beauxbatons. Normally he’d feel pity, but he suppressed that feeling. A guard at the Bastille couldn’t feel pity for a prisoner - especially not when so many of his comrades had died in that cowardly, traitorous attack by the girl’s brother. He had heard the stories about the British mudbloods murdering all the purebloods, but to think that French mudbloods would go as far… He shook his head. They’d reap what they had sown, and the mudblood in the cell would be the first of their number to pay for their crimes.

Two Aurors passed him, and the cell, dragonhide robes swishing. They barely glanced at him, arrogant jerks. Probably checking the prisoners for some comely girls. Or boys. Matthieu wondered if they knew about the precautions taken against a rescue attempt. If they did, would they have shown such contempt toward a man who could kill them with a flick of his wand, once they were inside a cell? Matthieu didn’t dwell on that. He hadn’t thought about much else but his task should enemies reach his post against all odds, and he didn’t like it. He was a guard, not an executioner. But he would do his duty. Besides, they were only mudbloods. And traitorous mudbloods at that, who’d die anyway.

*****

Ron Weasley dodged another drop of - hopefully - water falling from the damp ceiling of the tunnel he was in. He spotted something small scurrying out of the way in the distance, scared by the sudden light and noise a troop of soldiers without magic made even when they were sneaking. Probably a rat, but this close to the Bastille, it could have been any magical pest. Well, not garden gnomes. Those didn’t live this far underground. And no pixies either. Matter of fact, not much should be able to survive in a sewer abandoned a few hundred years ago. Tunnel. Tunnel. It was a tunnel now, it had been hundreds of years since this was a sewer. Abandoned, walled off, and forgotten by everyone, but for that ghost the French had gotten ahold of, who had shown them the entrance. Or so Ron had been told - he didn’t understand French. Judging by the reaction of Remi to whatever the ghost leading them kept saying, and the leering expression on the ghost’s face, it probably wasn’t a bad thing either that he didn’t understand French.

Ron was more concerned with having untrained wizards with them, but at least Remi served as an interpreter and guide, and was not just there for political reasons, like the rest of the French muggleborn wizards that were with the British squads in the tunnel. He understood that having French wizards and soldiers with them was important, that it allowed the whole rescue operation be portrayed as a matter between French wizards, with one side having called a bit of help from Britain, but he didn’t like having wizards who were not trained in muggle combat with them. He was certain one or two of them would mess up and get themselves killed - or get one of his people killed. At least the French squibs were trained soldiers. According to his muggle mates they were good soldiers too, though most of them were not French, but foreign legionnaires. But politically they counted as French - go figure. Politics were weirder than muggles. They had some nifty weapons though. He hoped to be able to fire that FAMAS after this mission. Maybe ‘find’ one too.

He looked back, checking on the rest of the group with him. They would soon reach the walled-off area that was connected to the Bastille’s dungeons. He was not too happy with the plan, but they hadn’t managed to think of a better one in the time they had - that bloody Duc had given the muggleborn deserters a week to surrender themselves, or their families would pay the price. It had been a miracle that Harry and Hermione and the Muggle Minister had managed to contact the French Président so quickly, and gotten rid of his wizard minders, and that the French had been able to gather many of their soldiers who knew about magic. Still, they’d be fighting in the dungeons of the Bastille, close quarters. The superiour range of their guns would not play a role there, and it would be harder to dodge spells too. Bayonet work ahead, and wasn’t that a grisly image. Ron would have liked a flame thrower, they were supposedly great for burning out bunkers, but that would mean lots of air burned as well, underground. At least grenades would work, somewhat.

Ron checked his watch - they were still on schedule. Another thing he didn’t like, they were only part of the whole operation. He would have wanted to focus on rescuing the hostages with their forces, but the French Président and the Muggle Minister had disagreed. With the losses of the French purebloods so far, they felt they were vulnerable, and would flee once they lost the Bastille. And they didn’t want them to escape - not even most of the muggleborn whose families were in danger. Bloody French!

So another force would be attacking the French Ministry, and a third force would be attacking the Chateau of the Bloody Duc - the Résistance, as the French Muggleborn called themselves, had been calling the pureblood leader that ever since they had heard of the people ‘killed while resisting arrest’, including children. Ron didn’t think the Duc would live long, with so many muggleborns hating him and the French government considering him a war criminal for attacking French civilians and planning to execute them. He smirked. Judging by the forces arrayed for the attack on the chateau that he had seen, that should be a memorable and mostly safe operation for the attackers. The Ministry and the Bastille though… the French would be expecting them, and be prepared. Hopefully not prepared enough though.

Ahead of him the ghost and Remi had stopped, the floating translucent French girl twirling around in a tattered dress and pointing at a spot on the wall, then sticking her head through for a moment.

“C’est ici!” she announced, and Remi translated:“That’s the spot.

Ron nodded, and looked back over his shoulders “Get the charges and get ready to make us a door.”

Kyle, his explosive expert moved ahead while others pulled out shrunk sandbags from their pouches and erected a barrier further down. Just in case the shaped charges were not quite as shaped as they should be. Each soldier carried a lot of shrunk bags in their pockets. They were great to quickly fortify positions, once they had learned just how to staple them without toppling over. That had not been a proud moment in his career. An ointment had taken care of the bruises, but the ribbing still had not died down. Even Harry had had some shrunk sandbag on his desk the last time Ron had visited his office. The prat probably still held a grudge for having to shrink a few vehicles for him…

Ron smiled fondly while taking cover. He checked his watch. A few more minutes, then it would be time.

*****

Guillaume Galladier cast another charm on his robes. Today was an important day for Magical France - the first of the traitorous mudbloods would be executed - and as the secretaire d’interieur he wanted to look his best next to the Duc. It was not a public execution, pity that, but the press would be there in the Bastille, and selected family members of brave French Aurors killed by the traitors. The Duc wanted to send a message to the mudblood traitors, to show them that no matter how far they ran, how well they hid, they’d not escape justice.

He checked the time on the watch standing in his office, then went down to the Floo connections of the Ministry building, passing several guards on his way. Most of the Aurors were at the Bastille, guarding the prisoners against a possible rescue attempt, but Guillaume had made sure that the Ministry would not be left defenseless. Who knew what such animals like the British and French mudbloods would do when they became desperate? If they attacked the Ministry they’d find out just how inferior their stolen magic was compared to pureblood talent and ingenuity. Even if they overpowered the guards in the lobby they’d not go further. He glanced towards the cubes of enchanted glass set in the ceiling. It had taken a lot of time and wands to prepare, but it had been the time and wands of clerks and Ministry employees, not of Aurors who were needed at the front, and for more important tasks.

Smiling he continued towards the Floo connections. Come what may, he had done his duty for France. He almost wished the mudbloods would dare to attack. He was certain he would send them packing, and impress the Duc - and those who would be looking for a new leader, should the Duc prove inadequate for leading France in this crisis...

*****

Francois Verrier was standing near the entrance of the French Ministry of Magic, checking his watch. Soon. He was nervous, more nervous than he had thought he’d be when he volunteered. Then he thought of his dead parents, and his captured sister, and hatred replaced his nervousness. Nearby, spread out, vans were waiting, filled with soldiers and wizards and those British soldier-wizards. Scary ones, those - even the muggle soldiers with them looked at him as if they knew they could kill him easily. The French soldiers and police officers - squibs and relatives of wizards - who would be taking part in the assault on the Ministry didn’t have that look. But then, they didn’t have so much experience killing wizards. And their leader… the news articles dealing with the British Blood War (after it had ended) had focused on the Boy-Who-Lived almost exclusively. Once Hermione Granger had become the first muggleborn Minister of Magic in Britain, a number of articles had been written about the role of the ‘brightest witch of her generation’ in the war, but he hadn’t read any that had focused on Ron Weasley, the third member of the ‘Golden Trio’. An oversight Francois couldn’t explain. He had met the man when he had Potter and Granger, and he was not one to be easily overlooked even in their presence. Even less so when he was planning the attacks on the purebloods - Francois didn’t call it an invasion, even though everyone knew that that had been the original scope of the plans. Quite impressive. And from what he had heard, the man had very close ties to the Delacours. Almost an honorary French then.

He checked his watch again. Almost time. He looked at the entrance again. Contrary to the British Ministry of Magic, this was no phone booth, but an actual entrance, camouflaged as a private bank. That would explain the security, should any muggle pass through the muggle-repelling charms. And it explained why he’d be walking up to it, openly, in a few minutes, and demand to be let inside. It was a very dangerous plan, but he’d be damned if he didn’t do his part for the war against the purebloods. He’d avenge his parents.

*****

Capitain Aléxandre Donat was not checking his watch. He had no need for that - he’d know when he had to launch his attack: A chateau would appear on a piece of land that currently looked like a small forest. That would happen when the curse-breakers had gone through the wards that kept the chateau of the Bloody Duc unplottable. Then they would cast Anti-Apparition jinxes and block the Floo connections. And then… he glanced at the troops waiting for his command. A mixed force, lots of légionnaires - the Légion attracted more than its share of squibs and muggleborn looking for a life outside the Magical World, with its tolerant recruiting policy - and some infantry. Enough to make sure no enemy would escape on foot. The British wizards would have to prevent the purebloods from flying away. After cracking the chateau’s defences.

He glanced over at the small contingent, frowning at the apparent age of the wizards, and especially the witches - that redhead looked like she was barely 18, a mere slip of of a girl. And yet she’d lead the attack on her broom? Donat hoped the British plan would work. He would have preferred to use artillery or airstrikes, and to hell with the Statute of Secrecy, to hell with the Magical World that did not want their squib children, like him! But the government thought this would avoid international - read: magical - complications, and allow them to blame the explosion on a self-made fertilizer bomb exploding prematurely among the terrorists. He sighed. He was used to following orders. He’d do so now too, of course. But he’d have really liked to see a few real bombs dropped on the chateau.

*****

Ron checked his watch - marvelous idea, wristwatches - and looked at his command. “Kyle, blow the wall in 10 seconds. Everyone else - get ready.” Then he ducked, and pressed his hands on his ears. Even with the earplugs, the explosion would be loud. He’d have cast a silence spell, but he did not want to risk missing something important, even for a moment.

He felt the explosion as well as he heard it, then spotted the dust cloud obscuring the wall from view. A quick gesture with his wand and it was blown clean, and the first of his men were storming inside. He didn’t get to go first, not as the officer in charge. Another thing he understood, but didn’t like. He was far from the last to enter, of course.

The explosion had opened a passage into the dungeons, and hopefully disoriented the defenders. With some luck the French purebloods - he had to remember that, couldn’t simply call them the French anymore - would be prepared to defend the upper entrances, and not the lower cellars. If not… then things would get dicier sooner.

An explosion from up ahead told him that they had met resistance before getting to the cells. Ah well… he didn’t really think things would go according to plan. If only he’d have gotten that Ingram Mac-10 enchanted in time… in close quarters it would be deadly. He’d have to do with what he had and he had a wide variety of weapons to pick from in his pockets.

Wand in one hand, L9A1 in the other, he glanced in the room the vanguard had already passed. He grimaced, briefly - the results of a 109A1 grenade inside a sturdy, small room were not pretty. Over 2000 pre-fragmented metal shards.. bloody work. The Swiss made good weapons.

Screams and more explosions, and lots of shots told him that they had reached the main area of the prison. If they could take control of the centre they could block reinforcements, and then deal with the remaining guards. He waved two légionnaires ahead, then followed them, stepping over a still bleeding corpse in Auror robes. Then he was in a wider passageway, ducking behind a sandbag barricade covering a side passage. One of the légionnaires was dead, it looked like he had taken a bone-breaker curse to the head. The other was firing into the side passage and cursing. Ron spotted a Shield Charm, and a Finite later the shield disappeared, exposing the Auror to the légionnaire’s FAMAS. The 5.6mm rounds made short work of the wizard. A British soldier replaced the dead French, and Ron hurried further ahead, passing more corpses. Bloody work indeed - neither French seemed to give any quarter. Not that he’d complain.

*****

Francois Verrier cleared his throat, then announced to the man sitting behind armored glass: “My name is Francois Verrier. The Duc demanded my surrender.”

That made the bored-looking gate guard take notice, and faster than Francois expected the door was opened and four, then six Aurors poured out, wands aimed at him.

“Surrender your wand!” the one at the rear demanded, and Francois slowly and with just two fingers pulled out the replica of his real wand that had been crafted two days ago. He could see the aurors relax as soon as the wand was deemed genuine. Idiots - as if a man was harmless without his wand. When they manhandled him inside he almost relaxed - he had feared they’d stun him and drag him inside. It would have been safer for him, but he didn’t want to miss what came next.

He didn’t have to wait. As soon as they were about to pass through the door the aurors dropped down, shot by snipers from the roofs across the street. Francois dropped to the ground as well, and stuck a metal stake under the door, keeping it open. Behind him squealing rubber announced the arrival of the assault team, looking like police officers. He had barely pulled his real wand from his hidden holster when the first of the soldiers stormed past him.

Grinning, he followed, screaming loudly: “Vive la révolution!” His cry was taken up by his fellow French muggleborn, and some of the French muggles too. If only Remi would be here it would be perfect.

*****

The Duc d’Orléans was getting ready for an event he had hoped to avoid. Executions were always bothersome, doubly so if children were involved. Either the condemned managed to make a good impression, or someone cried and pleaded for mercy, and some in the audience would be affected. But one had to show strength as a leader. If only those cowardly mudbloods had surrendered themselves… he’d like to see them, not their family, beheaded. What he had to do for his country! Noblesse oblige, indeed.

He checked himself with the help of his enchanted mirror. It wouldn’t do to not appear perfect, even for such a grim occasion. He had to look serious and dignified, showing that his reign was secure, with all the pomp he could afford as the Duc d’Orléans.

He didn’t want to think of his daughter, captured by those filthy British mudbloods. She had to suffer in their hands, but it was for the good of France that he had refused to trade her for his prisoners. If he had given in his reign would have ended as well - for who could afford to show such sentimentality, such weakness, in this time of need? No, he had to be strong, even though it broke his heart. Without him, the cause of Pureblood France was doomed. If only his wife had understood… she had not spoken to him, other than curse at him, ever since he had refused the British demands. Sighing, he closed his eyes, and schooled his features. He had an image to maintain, in public. He thought of the sister of that traitor, Verrier. She had been captured near Marseille, alive enough to be able to be executed without making the wrong kind of spectacle. Probably hurt enough to keep his men from taking some liberties, not that the Duc cared about that. But executing a girl would look better if she was not a broken wreck.

He strode to his private Floo connection and threw the powder inside. “Bastille.”

When the fire didn’t change he frowned. Why… then he realized, the mudbloods must have attacked the Bastille, trying to free the prisoners. Idiots. He grinned. They had to be desperate to make such a mistake - his men were waiting for them. And if they had been a bit more patient, they would have been able to attack himself. Not that they would have a chance against his best men, in the Bastille, behind wards and defenses mudbloods could not imagine. Not without more treachery, and he had weeded out such in the last weeks. And even if they managed to reach the cells, he had a few surprises waiting for them there....

Then he felt the wards of his chateau come under attack, and cursed. How had they found him? Delacour, the traitor, no doubt! And with the majority of his best Aurors defending the Bastille he was vulnerable. Not that vulnerable, of course, the chateau had been built with a siege in mind, and the changes in the centuries since had not robbed it of much of its defenses. Quickly he wrote a note, then duplicated it five times and ordered a house-elf to send it with owls. Then he locked down the gates and windows of the castle with a command to the wardstone. Help would arrive before those mudbloods would manage to break through the magically strengthened walls into the chateau proper, even if they managed to drop the wards.

His wife arrived, frantic with worry, but he ignored her, walking to window, and glancing outside. He couldn’t spot the attackers, but his wards were failing faster than expected. Some pureblood must be helping the mudbloods - he knew the mudbloods were not taught warding at school, neither in France nor in Britain. Or had they paid off the goblins? That traitorous vermin would do anything for enough gold. His musings were interrupted by his wife pulling on his arm, crying and pleading to save her, and with a sudden bout of sentimentality, he caressed her cheek, whispering comforting words. It worked, until he felt the wards fail completely, and drew a surprised, hissing breath.

“Go to the cellar, dear. I’ll lead the defenses. They’ll not break our walls until help arrives, but… just in case.” She shook her head, and drew her wand. Their eyes met, for a moment, then he nodded. They’d face this crisis together. Like family should. He bent forward, cupping her chin, and his lips met hers, right before his world ended with an earth-shaking explosion that reduced much of the castle to rubble, including the wing his quarters were in.

*****

Ginny Weasley yelled with glee when the all-clear sign came from the Curse-Breakers, and flew towards the revealed chateau on her new broom. Controlling her broom with one hand, she pulled out what looked like a can with the other. Hermione had said it was a shrunk ‘fertilizer bomb’, and had impressed on her how high she would have to be to safely drop it on the castle below her. Ginny wouldn’t have believed her if not for the demonstrations of muggle explosives she had seen during training. Even so she gasped when with a touch of her wand the can-sized cylinder turned into a metal tank as big as the Burrow. Suddenly, even her great height did not look safe enough. Swallowing, she raced up and away as if she was chasing the snitch at the World Cup. The explosion still felt like a blow to her chest, caused her ears to ring and would have thrown her off her broom if not for her Sticking Charm.

She glanced back, and gasped - much of the chateau was covered in dust, but she could see the remains of a tower that had fallen to the side, and rubble strewn around on the lawn. Who could have known that muggle chicken shit was so dangerous?

*****

Capitain Donat flinched when the bomb went off, then stared for a second, frozen, when he saw the effects, before a cruel smile broke out on his face. “Men, you have your orders, shoot anyone who does not surrender! Today, the tyrant will fall! Vive la révolution! Vive la France!” He kept smiling while the first shots rang out. Above him, British broom riders were looking for French brooms. To see the Duc’s Chateau fall… to see the surviving staff and guards stagger out, and be cut down by bullets… it was a glorious day indeed! And who knew… maybe once the chateau was secure, he could get to know that redhead a bit better. She had certainly spirit and bravery enough for two girls.

*****

Matthieu Thibault was shivering with fear - no, with tension. The alert had been sounded, right after a loud explosion, and ever since then he had heard the sounds of firelegs, and more explosions. The mudbloods had attacked, as had been feared, expected, but they had managed to enter from below, somehow. Probably treason again. His hand trembled, causing his wand to shake, and he gripped it with his other hand. If enemies reached him he would cast a finite on the metal bar in front of him, and the spikes transfigured into stone floors inside the cells would revert, impaling the prisoners and robbing the traitors of their prize. If they managed to breach the Auror lines, of course - and that was unlikely, not with the finest French wizards here. The mudbloods would soon be dead, or fleeing. They had to.

Matthieu trembled, shaking now himself, when an explosion sounded even closer than the last series. He told himself that this had to have been a very powerful blasting curse, so it had to have been cast by an Auror, mudbloods were too weak for powerful magic, relying on treachery and firelegs. That was what the Aurors he had talked with when the spikes had been set up had said. The spikes… he remembered the plan. Again. Finite on the floor, then flee.. fall back to the next door while the mudbloods would be trying to save the prisoners. They would not see him in time to cast a spell, not with the twists the passageway took, and he would escape.

He took another shivering breath. His heart felt like it would burst, it was beating so fast. Then he heard the cries.

“Vive la révolution! Vive la France!”

Those mudbloods! Rage filled him when the prisoners started to take up the cries. He almost cast the Finite, but stopped himself. He had his orders. “Shut up!” he bellowed instead. “Shut up!” But with dozens of prisoners shouting he could not hear his own voice. He didn’t hear the the shots fired from a disillusioned soldier that ended his life either.

*****

Ron glanced briefly at the French guard to make certain that he was dead, then dropped his Disillusion Charm to use hand signs to order the soldiers with him ahead so they could secure the prison cell area. Remi tried to get the prisoners to quiet down, without much success. Even if he had spoken French Ron wouldn’t have tried that. Instead he started stunning the prisoners - they’d check them for spells then portkey them out to where they would be tested for polyjuice and other potions.

It had been costly, far too many had died in those twisted tunnels, especially among the French who had less experience and training than the British, but they had managed it. If the other two attacks had been as successful then Pureblood France was history.

*****

Guillaume Galladier cursed his own arrogant wish. The mudbloods had attacked, and were inside the lobby already. The Floo connections were likely out, and Apparition blocked. At least he’d have made certain of that in place of the mudblood leader. He glanced at the battle. His guards and Aurors were brave, but half a dozen of them were dead at the door, and more mudbloods were pouring inside - and were those muggles? Those animals in his Ministry? He almost stormed out, wand flashing, but controlled himself. He had prepared for that, after all. “Fall back! Fall back at once!” he yelled, waited a few seconds at most, then ducked around the corner hiding him from the lobby’s view and sent a Blasting Curse into the ceiling.

The screams from the mudbloods and their filthy muggle allies when the poisoned water poured out from the fake ceiling and drenched them with lethal venom were loud, desperate, and fatally short. A few of his guards would have been killed as well, but they’d not have managed to hold off the attackers anyway.

A quickly conjured marble barrier kept the poison from flowing into the other parts of the building. He rallied the surviving Aurors and guards and even Ministry employees around him. More wands than he expected. With the time granted by his trap, they could seal the building, reinforce the wards, and wait for reinforcements from the Bastille. Or break the Anti-Apparition jinxes and flee… rally elsewhere. His orders were disturbed by his secretary running up to him, waving a parchment. Before he could reprimand the silly witch she gasped: “A message from the Duc… his chateau is under attack! He needs reinforcements!”

Guillaume cursed. Even though he was certain the Bastille would be sending Aurors to break the siege of the chateau, he knew he would have to send reinforcements as well. The Duc would not tolerate even the appearance of leaving him to his fate, no matter how important his own task was here, and should the Duc die while he was not doing anything to help him, then Guillaume could forget any hope to succeed him. But if he sent a force big enough to avoid those problems he couldn’t hold the Ministry!

Shaking his head at the impossible demands on him, he ordered the building sealed and curses and traps laid out - he might have to abandon the Ministry building, but the mudbloods would have to pay with more blood to be able to use it. If luck was with him they’d be so scared by his poison trap that they would not dare to venture inside the building before he was back. As soon as the Anti-Apparition JInxes had been dealt with he gave the order to apparate out. They’d rally, hook up with the reinforcements from the Bastille, and then apparate again to save the Duc.

*****

The sight of the Duc’s chateau in ruins - entire wings were barely more than rubble, all the towers had fallen - with the cursed Tricolore raised above it shocked Guillaume. How was that possible… how could the mudbloods have stormed the Bastille, against the best Aurors of France, attacked the Ministry, and taken the Chateau of the Duc, all at the same time? How did they have the forces to achieve that? According to the Aurors who had been fighting at the Bastille before joining up with his own forces at the rally point, the mudbloods had sent the vast majority of their forces to rescue the prisoners.

There would not be any rescue here. He doubted that the Duc was still alive. They could not stay here either. Any force that could cause such destruction would annihilate his forces. Returning to the Ministry would be suicide as well. As much as it galled him, they had to abandon the Bastille as well, and retreat… flee. Maybe to Beauxbatons? Would the mudbloods attack a school filled with children?

Of course they would, after the Duc had ordered their own children arrested. No, Beauxbatons was no option either. And what family estate could hope to withstand the forces that had wrecked the Chateau of the Duc? He had to laugh at the irony - he might have become the leader of Magical France just in time to abandon the country and go into exile. But at least he’d be alive.

*****


	21. The Eastern Front

**Chapter 21: The Eastern Front**

Remi Dubois was still shivering. The assault on the Bastille had been the biggest battle he had ever been in - the first real battle, to tell the truth. Until then he had fought in a few skirmishes, but nothing like this nightmare of death and destruction. There had been no clean, or even gallant duels, no matching spells and wits with an opponent, just a brutal slaughter, often in shadows and darkness, at knife fighting range, where most who had died had not seen what had killed them, much less who. That he had survived that carnage was a miracle. And yet some of the légionaires and the British looked like they wanted another go at the enemy, especially that redheaded devil of a Wizard, Weasley. He shook his head at that. He didn’t doubt the stories of three kids beating the worst Dark Lord since Grindelwald anymore.

Around him the freed hostages who had been checked out for spells and other traps were levitated, still stunned, out of the cells, towards the Apparition point set up outside the wards, to transport them to the medical facilities near the staging areas. Remi stared at each and everyone, looking for Francois’ sister, Désirée, but so far he hadn’t found her. If she was not among the rescued prisoners… the thought of telling Francois that his sister was dead made him almost throw up. She couldn’t be dead… Francois couldn’t have lost all his family that quickly… there! He spotted a glimpse of blonde hair, the right height…

“Désirée!” he shouted, and ran towards the floating girl, pushing past a burly French soldier whose protests he didn’t even notice. It was her!

“I’ll take her to the medical area!” he told the wizard with her, his tone allowing no dissent. Francois’ little sister was alive! Now he just had to find Francois!

*****

Ron Weasley ran a hand over his head, then over his neck, wiping at what he knew was dried sweat. That had been a nasty bit of work, as one of his military instructors would have said. Too many dead, and he felt guilty for being alive, for having led this mission. Passing through the staging area he glanced at the arriving hostages. At least they had saved them. He noticed his guide, Remi, arrive with a girl in tow and head towards the medics. It looked like he got lucky, saved the girl. Ron knew that Remi’s friend Francois had been killed in the French Ministry, poisoned by a trap, but didn’t want to be the one to tell him that and ruin his day. He was expected at the Chateau of the Duc, or the ruins of said chateau, anyway, so he had an excuse.

An Apparition later he was staring at the rubble while he gave the guards the password. Wow… he knew that appearances were deceiving when it came to such ruins, but he didn’t think anyone inside could have survived that.

“Ron!”

He turned his head, just in time to recognize Ginny sprinting towards him. His little sister hugged him, hard enough to prove she was Molly’s daughter, and started telling him of her bombing run. Fortunately she was so excited she released him, to have her hands free to demonstrate her angle of attack and flight, and he could breathe again.

Merlin! He just realized - his little sister did that. And was terribly proud of it. Had she always been such a bloodthirsty one? Though the important thing was that she was safe and whole. He realized she probably had been worried about him, the tales of the attacks in Paris must have reached the forces at the chateau already, and he hugged her, reassuring his little sister - she’d always be his little sister - that he was fine, and that the hostages were safe. He didn’t go into details about the fighting, of course. Thank the Founders that Ginny was with the Broom Corps, and not the strike teams who might have to fight a similar battle again!

*****

Hermione Granger looked at the body, or what was left of it, of the Duc d’Orléans as it was levitated out of what looked like the remains of a luxurious bedroom. Crushed, burned, mangled flesh. They would have to do some DNA testing to make sure it was the Duc, and not some double. While she doubted the pureblood noble had thought of such a ruse, one could never be certain. Hopefully he was the biological father of Marie d’Orléans, currently a prisoner in Britain. Given some of the purebloods’ tastes, one couldn’t be certain of their parentage. She spotted the corpse of what was assumed to be the Duc’s wife, and winced. The fire had reached the woman as well. In order to distract herself from the sight and smell, she ran through a few forensic spells in her head that could be used on the bodies, until Harry took her hand and reminded her that they had a meeting with the French leadership.

She wasn’t looking forward to that - the mission hadn’t gone off as planned, and it was partially her fault, for not insisting that they had a better plan. The two had discussed the operation with Ron already, though not really in a proper debriefing, as both he and herself had noted, to the amusement of Harry. In short, they had been lucky to win this battle. The planning had been rushed - due to the pureblood ultimatum, though - and neither the French soldiers nor the French muggleborns taking part in it had been really trained for magical warfare, not like their own forces had been.

In Ron’s opinion - she wasn’t certain she shared it, he was a bit too critical when it concerned his own performance - they had only taken the Bastille thanks to having British soldiers and wizards trained and experienced in such battles, better equipment, and the fact that the French had lost too many of their own experienced Aurors in earlier battles, and of course due to the surprise entrance. Even so the trap almost got the prisoners. The home advantage had proven decisive in the Ministry, the attacking force had run into a prepared ambush since their ruse to gain entrance had only taken them inside along an expected route of entry. At least the chateau had been a battle where they had been able to use their biggest advantages - longer range thanks to modern weapons, and modern explosives - to great advantage. Hermione winced. They had certainly forgotten that even purebloods wised up sooner or later, and shouldn’t be underestimated. Well, they wouldn’t make that mistake again.

She glanced at Harry, noticing how he forced himself to smile at the soldiers and wizards they met while walking to the apparition point. He had taken the results from the battles the hardest, feeling guilty for staying behind and not leading the charge. Hermione had spent hours arguing, in private of course, until he had very grudgingly accepted that he was needed far more as Chief Warlock than as a soldier and had promised not to do anything foolish. Of course he had demanded the same promise from herself, which she had been happy to give. Researching spells that could be used in battle wasn’t anything like rushing into battle, after all, and not covered by her promise! She just needed more time for her research.

Hermione smiled at her love, wrapped her arm around his waist - he had filled out some since his teenage years - and simply enjoyed their brief moment of peace until it was time for their meeting with the French Président and the Prime Minister and what representative the French muggleborns had sent.

*****

Harry Potter thought the French Président either had a slightly cavalier attitude towards human life, or was very apt at seeing the positives of everything. Or he was just used to losing soldiers in military operations. In any case the man certainly was quite pleased about the outcome of the operation, brushing away Hermione’s not-quite-apology about less than perfect planning. The enemy had been driven out of Paris - out of France entirely, if the reports from Beauxbatons that many of the pureblood children had left the school for the borders were to be trusted - and the Republic of France was no longer sharing its sacred soil with a magical aristocracy.

The Chief Warlock glanced at the representative of the French muggleborns, Remi Dubois, and hid a frown. The man looked like he was still shaken if not shocked by the battle in the Bastille, and the loss of his best friend, Francois Verrier in the bungled-up attack on the Ministry. He seemed quite ill-prepared for this meeting. Certainly not prepared and determined enough to stand up to the leader of France. Harry thought that the only thing that had kept the French Président from outright annexing Magical France was his warning about the possible problems that could cause with the ICW. Even without the Republic completely taking over, Harry didn’t doubt that the muggle government would run most of magical France soon enough - the French muggleborn barely qualified as a resistance movement and were simply not organized or strong enough to take over their own Ministry. The closest they had had to a well-known leader had been Verrier, and he had to go and die in some foolhardy attack.

Harry knew he was unfair. He himself certainly had done things that had been much more foolhardy in the War against Voldemort, and even if Verrier had survived he might not be in a better position than Dubois here, but he couldn’t help but feel some resentment - having a muggle government rule a magical nation was bound to cause problems, not just with the ICW, but also with Magical Prussia, where a still strong Grindelwald faction would certainly object to muggles ruling over magicals. At least the Prussians had stopped their attacks on France according to the latest reports, once they had heard of the fall of the pureblood government. Harry wasn’t naive enough to assume that meant the Prussians were their allies. He was certain they had stopped because they had seen pictures of the Chateau of the Duc d’Orléans reduced to rubble. Despite some efforts by the British Ministry and even the Secret Service, they still lacked dependable information about the inner workings of Magical Prussia. Harry started to suspect that not even the Prussians themselves knew what they were doing. And they couldn’t contact the German Chancellor without the Prussians being aware of it.

His musings were interrupted when the trap in the French Ministry was mentioned. They still hadn’t identified the poison that had been used. While it wasn’t basilisk poison, it certainly had similar properties. The victims had been partially dissolved as well as poisoned, indicating a very strong acid component. Nasty stuff.

Hermione cleared her throat, a sign of her hesitation to touch the subject she was about to speak about, as Harry knew. “Technically, this trap by the French purebloods could be considered chemical warfare, and their leader could be charged with a war crime, once we apprehend him.”

The room fell silent for a moment as people gathered their thoughts. The Prime Minister was the first to speak: “If we classify this as chemical warfare we might cause the purebloods to take notice of our own history of chemical warfare. There are still vast amounts of such agents in storage, especially in the former soviet union, and if magicals get their hands on them… even an accident with nerve gas has the potential to cause a horrendous number of civilian deaths.”

The French Président agreed: “The French pureblood leaders already are doomed for their crimes against the citizens of France. And the possible consequences of the use of chemical weapons in any European state are too grave to take this risk.”

It was understood, but left unsaid, that there would not be any plans to retaliate in kind. Harry knew that Hermione had made plans - she had mentioned some contingencies to him - but she hadn’t written them down. No one wanted to risk the use of weapons of mass destruction in this conflict. If the Russians found traces of Sarin or VX on their soil...

The meeting concluded with talk about bases in Frances to both secure the borders and the magical areas, and to prepare for a possible attack by Russia. Even though the Tsar’s forces were busy fighting the Prussians, and would be even busier when the Prussian forces who had been attacking Magical France were moved to the eastern front, they couldn’t rule out some disruptive or terror attack by small forces, if only to keep them busy with defensive measures and unable to fully support the Prussians. It was what Harry would do in their place.

*****

Hans Steiner, Chancellor of Magical Prussia, was angry at a lot of people. At his own Aurors for not defeating the French before the British swooped in and took over France. At the British for waiting until the French had been weakened enough fighting Prussia’s forces so they could steal their prize and take France for themselves. At the Russians for attacking Prussia and forcing a two-front war on them. At the French for fighting so hard against Prussia, only to roll over for Britain. And at his Minister of the Interiour, Herbert Kruge, who was late for the meeting of his cabinet. What was Herbert thinking? He sent his secretary out to summon Kruge, post-haste. They had a war to fight, tardiness was not to be tolerated!

He looked at the other members of his cabinet. No one seemed particularly nervous, but they would be able to hide even the most sinister plots. They would not have risen to their current positions otherwise.

“Even with Herbert absent, we’ll start. How goes the Polish Plan, Ottokar?”

Ottokar Mannstein cleared his throat. “The Polish mudbloods are ready, even eager, to throw off the yoke of the Russians, but they do not trust us enough to let us move troops into Poland. So far I have not heard of any contacts to the British, but I suspect they are counting on British help, especially after the quick fall of France.”

Hans almost growled at that. France again!

Mannstein didn’t seem to notice as he continued: “I expect the uprising in the next few days. I also have heard that the Bulgarians have become even more hesitant to do their part for the Eastern Alliance. The number of their volunteers are dwindling rapidly, and Russia is pressuring them to draft more wizards. And both the British and French have asked us for a formal armistice with intent to begin negotiations for a peace settlement.” He didn’t add ‘again’ - everyone knew that Hans had ignored the first such demand. Making peace with the French before knowing who held the reins in Magical France was not something he wanted to do, one or the other faction would end up blaming him for betraying the Fatherland.

Hans listened to Mannstein going on about British forces in France - all estimates - and that the French pureblood government in exile had been sighted in Russia. They were of no consequence now, after their defeat. There was still no Kruge! Where was that man?

His secretary entered, and Hans knew from the expression on the woman’s face that she had bad news. He was right. Kruge had been attacked in his home, and was in critical condition in the Hospiz!

Hans was about to double his own security, then hesitated. What if he had traitors in his ranks counting on that? Who could have gotten to Kruge? And why? Had he gone too far in keeping the factions in check? He snarled. He couldn’t trust anyone right now, not with his brother still the Prussian delegate to the ICW, and unable to help out at home.

*****

Makary Bercik took a last look around the dusty side street of Warsaw he was on, then straightened and entered the dive that served as the entrance to Warsaw’s magical quarter - or what was left of it after World War II. Inside he spotted his friends and fellow revolutionaries, at their usual table. Half of them wore the robes of Aurors off duty, like himself. Just a few muggleborns having a beer or three, to wind down from their last mission in the war. At least that was what they should look like to the informers. Soon it wouldn’t matter anymore. It probably wouldn’t matter if one informer ratted them out right now - the wizards and witches of the Polish National Army should be in place already, poised to storm the corrupt Ministry filled with lackeys of the Russians and corrupt pureblood parasites. Makary almost smiled at the thought of how the communist rhetoric he had grown up with fit the situation so well, even though his parents’ country had already regained its freedom from the communist oppressors.

Makary was aware that what they were about to do was very dangerous. Poland was a major battleground in the war between Prussia and Russia. At least toppling the polish pureblood government would be easy - he was an Auror, and knew how many of the other wizards and witches sworn to protect Magical Poland were fed up with their government. Not all of them were muggleborns or half-bloods, even a sizeable number of the purebloods were disgusted with Poland being a client state of Russia. They too remembered their proud history of independence until Grindelwald had smashed half of Magical Europe while Hitler’s armies had devastated the muggle nations. No, the Ministry would fall easily. Forcing the Russians out and keeping the Prussians from moving in would be difficult though.

Makary knew though that this would not keep them from doing what they had to. His great-uncle had been killed fighting German Panzers. Makary still hated that the Nazi propaganda of polish cavalry attacking tanks with sabers and lances had persisted, turning the heroic resistance of the Polish Army, outnumbered and outgunned, yet defiant, into a joke. And yet they had resisted the Nazi War Machine until the Russians had stabbed them in the back, while their nominal allies England and France had sat the war out. His grandfather had been murdered at Katyn.

Neither his Grandfather nor his grand-uncle had even suspected there was a Magical Poland who was crushed by Prussian Storm Wizards while they died. Makary owed it to them to do his part to free the last part of Poland still occupied by foreign forces. He just hoped that the British would honor the debt they owed Poland for their betrayal in the past, for the Polish gift of the German Enigma machine that had done so much to win the war, to support them this time. But even if they didn’t - Poland would stand and fight alone, if it had to. Better to die fighting for your freedom than to die fighting for Russia.

After finishing his beer he stood up. “Time to head back into the Ministry. Walk with me there?” he asked his non-Auror friends, who nodded. Nothing suspicious there, just a group of friends taking a stroll down the street. In the street Makary noticed more groups casually moving towards the Ministry.

The plan was to move inside as if going to work, then take control of the building in one fell swoop. But as Makary neared the entrance, he saw this would not work. The guards on duty were arguing with another muggleborn Auror, claiming he should be with his troop at the forward base, waiting for his next mission, not back here at the Ministry. Makary frowned. The guards were expecting to deal with a coward or deserter, and were holding up everyone at the gate.

No plan survives contact with the enemy, he told himself, and stepped up. They wouldn’t expect an organized attack though. It would be more bloody, more dangerous than expected, but that would not stop him or his friends and comrades.

“Bóg Honor Ojczyzna!” He shouted, and took one of the guards down with a Piercing Curse. The other guard had barely turned when he too was struck. The war cry was taken up by dozens, and the gates were thrown wide open while the revolutionaries stormed the Ministry, Makary leading them.

“Bóg Honor Ojczyzna!”

*****

Viktor Krum was sitting in his parents’ home, twisting an empty bottle of butterbeer in his hands. He had grown fond of the drink during his time at Hogwarts, and had gone to some lengths to find a supplier in his home country. The seeker was deep in thought. His family was still mourning the death of his cousin Marius, killed at Hogsmeade. Hermione Granger had been kind enough to arrange the transfer of the body through muggle means so he could be buried at the family plot. Marius had volunteered to fight - someone from the family had to uphold the family honor after all - when Viktor had cited his friendship with Hermione as a reason not to fight the British. As Viktor had expected, the war against the British had been a disaster. Not many of the Bulgarian forces involved had managed to return.

Then the Prussians had entered the war, and everyone in Eastern Europe had remembered Grindelwald’s forces. It was one thing to attack a distant island for the Russians, but another to fight the Prussians. But even so fatigue had set in, fueled by death notices and rumors of Russians using the war to rob Bulgaria of their best and brightest wizards, to keep it weak and under their control. Viktor had done his best to appear apolitical, hadn’t mentioned his opinion of the British and their chances of victory to anyone. His well-known special relationship with Hermione Granger already was reason enough for the government to keep him under close observation. He also knew, Durmstrang had taught him well, that in the face of a disaster, the first impulse of those in power was to look for a scapegoat. And as the supposed lover of the British Minister, he was the perfect ‘traitor’ to sacrifice. He was certain that if not for his Quidditch fame, he would have been arrested and probably executed already.

And now France had fallen, in a single day. The Russians were in an uproar, suddenly facing all of Prussia’s forces, in addition to the British. Bulgaria had it worse though. Between the fear of the heirs of Grindelwald, and the British muggleborns conquering Europe and massacring purebloods, no one knew what would be the best course of action to keep Bulgaria safe.

It was no real surprise that a number had turned to Viktor, hoping he could negotiate an agreement with ‘his love’ to keep his country safe. Some idiots even proposed to make him Minister of Magical Bulgaria to secure the support and protection from Britain. Viktor scoffed at that nonsense. He was a Quidditch player, a star seeker, a Triwizard Tournament Champion, and an accomplished wizard, but he was no politician, nor had he the desire to become one. Not to mention that he knew Hermione Granger well, and knew that for all she was a lovely girl, she was absolutely ruthless when she deemed it necessary. She wouldn’t commit her country to an alliance and risk a war with Magical Prussia out of personal friendship or even sentimentality. Now, if Britain was at war with Prussia, things would be different, but as it was Prussia seemed, if not an ally of Britain, then at least a country fighting the same enemy.

Viktor blinked when he heard loud voices from downstairs. Why was his mother, usually very calm and quiet, yelling? And at whom? He opened the door to the hallway, and listened. His eyes widened - his parents were arguing with a group of Aurors, come to arrest him. They were loudly claiming he wasn’t here. Viktor smiled. They wanted him to leave. He could take his chances with the Aurors - he had been a Triwizard Tournament Champion for a reason - but it would endanger his parents. So he disillusioned himself, summoned his broom, and left through the window. It seemed that the government had decided they needed a scapegoat, after all. Unless someone was stupid enough to think that they could use him as a hostage to force whatever concessions they wanted from Hermione. Some of the older men in power did seem to think women were prone to such sentimentality. He scoffed at the thought - they certainly didn’t know Hermione Granger.

*****


	22. Breakdown

**Chapter 22: Breakdown**

Hans Steiner took great care to appear calm and in complete control before his cabinet, even using cosmetic spells to hide the signs of the stress he was under - something just a few weeks before he had denounced as ‘a habit for French’. But his situation was very tenuous, despite the return of his cousin Herbert Steiner from the ICW to fill in as Minister of the Interiour. News of the British and French offers for an armistice and peace talks had been leaked - probably by the French and British - and not just the Muggleborn Movement, but also most of the German Magical States had been clamoring ever since to accept the offer. The mudbloods because both countries were ruled by their fellow mudbloods, the other states because those cowards feared an invasion, and didn’t trust Prussia to defend them! Truth to be told, Hans would like to accept the offer, it would secure his western flank, but he couldn’t afford it. The Grindelwald faction would accept a treaty with mudbloods, they had always been rather… liberal… in that regard, but they’d never tolerate muggles having as much influence in magical affairs as, according to rumors, the British and French had. Not to mention that his own people, few as they were, would be likely to oust him should he treat with mudbloods.

And the situation in Poland wasn’t as big a help as Mannstein had promised. Hans glared at the man. The Polish mudbloods had toppled their government, but were locked in a struggle with the Russians now, who still held key locations in the country. All according to plan. But they were not allowing the Prussians into the country, and if Hans ordered his forces to move eastward anyway, all of Europe would paint him as Grindelwald’s Heir - or worse, Grindelwald himself, returned from the grave. And of course the Prussians following Grindelwald were pushing for exactly that, an invasion of Poland!

But the biggest problem was that with the Russians occupied with the occupation of Poland, and with the French mudbloods asking for peace, Magical Prussia might appear safe enough for the moment to break the fragile truce between its different factions. Especially with Kruge, who had maintained order by any means necessary, stuck in the Hospiz for months. Hans’s cousin was a good politician, but he had been the representative of Magical Prussia at the ICW for years, and might not be up to the often dirty task of keeping the population in line. But then, he was the only one Hans could trust enough for the task. No wonder the chancellor felt as if he had aged years in the last few weeks!

He started the meeting, going over the minor topics first, to help maintain the impression of normalcy. It didn’t help as much, just about anything the government did seemed to be affected by the war lately. And everyone wanted more gold for their own branch. Not that they had anything to show for it.

Mannstein was the worst, Hans thought as he listened to the man explain that apparently, Viktor Krum, famous Quidditch seeker, had attempted a coup in Bulgaria and was now on the run from the authorities. ‘Apparently’, ‘probably’ and ‘possibly’ littered Mannstein’s sentences - it was clear the man had no real idea of what was happening in Bulgaria. Or in France. Or anywhere - Hans was not certain the man knew what was happening in his own household these days. Or maybe that was just an act? Was Mannstein hiding his real knowledge to cripple Hans’s government?

He pondered this while Herbert Steiner gave his report on the current state of the Ministry of the Interiour and the investigation into the attack on Kruge. Hans had read the report already - nothing new or solid, Herbert was still trying to get a handle on all of Kruge’s secret channels and projects. That man had kept too much to himself, but then, that was what had made him so good at his task.

Herbert was still explaining how the interrogation of Kruge’s house elves had not netted any information when the meeting was interrupted by Frank Matthys, the leader of Steiner’s personal guard. “Chancellor! There’s fighting in the streets! The Aurors on duty are under attack!”

Hans was on his feet in an instant, followed by his cabinet. “Who’s attacking us? Is the Ministry secure?” What had Herbert missed?

“They are showing the banner of the Freikorps!”

Hans paled. The Freikorps was not as feared nor as known in Europe as Grindelwald’s Storm Wizards, but every Prussian knew that the Korps had been what paved the way for Grindelwald to the top of Magical Prussia in a bloody coup. To openly fly that flag once more made their aims clear. But they had made a grave mistake. With both the eastern and the western theatre secure, if only for moment, Hans could recall the bulk of Aurors and crush the Korps. But what if they were counting on that? The Aurors at the front were unreliable, that was why they were there, and not at home keeping the peace. Those were all purebloods from the right families, no radicals among them. At least as far as Hans knew.

“How many are there in the ranks of the Korps?”

“Too many for the Aurors we have,” Frank said.

Hans glanced at Herbert, but his cousin was busy talking to his secretary. The Chancellor decided to trust Frank - his cousin hadn’t been minister long enough to get a handle on such a volatile situation. Kruge would have known, and would have nipped that in the bud, or prepared a trap. But Kruge was in the Hospiz, and had still not woken up.

“Can we hold the Ministry?”

Frank hesitated, a very bad sign. “If we seal it up, we might hold out long enough to get relieved. If there are forces coming to relieve us.”

Hans was aware everyone was looking at him, waiting for his decision. If he gave the order to evacuate, his government was finished. No one would be supporting him in exile as the rightful pureblood government, not after the attack on France. And there weren’t many countries willing to host his government anyway. The other German States would cave in to whoever took over in Prussia, or to the British and French. The Russians and the rest of Eastern Europe would kill him. Maybe Scandinavia… Hans shook his head.

“We’ll hold out until the Korps is crushed. Recall the Aurors and seal the Ministry.” It was a slim chance, but if the mudbloods and the Freikorps bled each other enough… Hans’s thoughts were interrupted by his cousin using a portkey.

Herbert had abandoned him! Did he know more about the situation than he had let on? For a moment Hans was tempted to flee himself, then he dropped the thought. He had made his choice long ago. Better to stand and fight and die than live broken and in shame.

*****

Former Auror Kurt Müller, last serving on the Eastern Front until his unit had been recalled to Berlin, now part of the Muggleborn Movement’s armed branch, the Bewaffnete Bewegung, rolled into a shop while the street behind him was turned into a crater thanks to a Reductor Curse from a Korps Wizard. He returned fire with a series of Piercing Curses. Badly aimed, they would hopefully serve to draw attention and allow his comrades to flank the nazi. He apparated into the backroom right afterwards - fighting the Russians taught one to not stay still very quickly - and ran up the stairs there, to the window on the first floor. The street below was torn up from dozens of curses, and most houses were damaged, some burning. Neither the Korps nor the Bewegung were pulling any punches, and what government Aurors had been trying to intervene had long been killed or fled. Not that they had had any chance, the inbred idiots probably hadn’t ever fought for real. Unlike the Korps - those had been at the front, like himself, and were experienced. Kurt spotted a Korps wizard on the other side of the street, creeping along the wall, and took him and most of the wall out with a Blasting Curse. He smirked - as a ‘mudblood’ he hadn’t gone to Durmstrang, and had missed out on learning the Dark Arts, but as experience had shown he didn’t need that to kill and maim. With a little bit of imagination, something most muggleborn had in spades, anything was possible.

His hand dug into the pouch on his belt - the Bewegung was using recolored surplus fatigues from the Bundeswehr as uniforms - and pulled out a molotov cocktail. A banishing spell later the barricade the nazis had been hiding behind was covered in burning liquid and one Korps Wizard was flailing and screaming, in too much pain to even think of dousing the flames on his body with magic. Kurt grinned, wishing the support wizards from the Bewegung would hurry up and cook up real napalm and maybe white phosphorus. He couldn’t wait to show the Nazis how ‘muggle Fiendfyre’ felt.

*****

Marie d’Orléans was sitting on the cot in her cell, hands on her knees. She felt like pacing, even screaming, but wouldn’t give her jailors the satisfaction to see a daughter of her family lose her composure. They had taken her captive, healed her wounds, and imprisoned her - though not in a dungeon, as she had expected, but a strange looking cell. Not that it changed anything about her situation - she was a prisoner of the British, her wand taken, and her cell warded. And she had no doubt about her fate - they were even now preparing some ritual, after having taken spit from her. She wasn’t familiar with any ritual that would need spit instead of blood, but who knew what dark magic the British murderers had unearthed? Thanks to what she had overheard, she knew that the Weasleys were masters of the Dark Arts and the Minister for Magic was even worse. According to rumors and some old news articles she had disfigured pureblood children for life with new curses when she was still a student!

Someone knocked at the cell door. Marie smoothed her clothes - prisoner robes, of a weird design, probably left from Dumbledore, he had been said to favor bright colors - and stood up.

“Entrez!” she called. Her consent was a mere illusion, her jailors couldn’t enter any time they liked, but she clung to the formality as one of the last remnants of her life that had not crumbled.

It wasn’t a jailor who entered, but Marcel Delacour. The traitor! Marie’s face froze into a mask of politeness while her eyes blazed with hatred.

“Please sit down, Monsieur Delacour. I would offer you refreshments, but as you can see I am currently unable to call upon a servant or otherwise fulfill my duties as a host.” Her words dripped with sarcasm.

Delacour didn’t seem to notice, or acknowledge her tone. In fact, he did a good job at feigning compassion as he sat down across from her bunk, on the sole chair in the cell. He took a deep breath, then started to speak: “Mademoiselle, I have the sad duty to inform you of your parents’ demise. Their death was but recently confirmed.”

“What?”

Marie stared at him. Her parents dead? First her brother, then her parents? While Delacour explained about an attack on her family’s home and something called DNA analysis, giving his word he was not lying, she fought to keep her composure, to keep her tears at bay. She barely succeeded, thanking him for the information with stiff, stilted but ingrained politeness, waiting for the door to close behind him before collapsing on the bed and crying. She knew she was under observation but didn’t care anymore.

*****

Viktor Krum was staring at the crowd surrounding him. Had he heard them correctly? They couldn’t mean…

“What did you say?” he asked.

“We’re here to support you in your fight! The Ministry will fall!”

“What?”

He had heard right. Viktor was asking himself why he had thought seeking shelter here had been a good idea. The Stoyanovs were some of his greatest and most loyal fans, so he trusted them not to betray him to the Aurors until this affair was sorted out. But he’d never have expected them to gather people to actually do what the Ministry was accusing him of, namely to start a coup! No one would ever believe his claims of innocence. He thought such things did only happen to Harry Potter.

Viktor rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t just leave those people to their - well-deserved! - fate. Too many would have noticed, and the Aurors would hear about it soon. Time for some common sense.

“I am not certain we have enough people to actually storm the Ministry. Even the bravest fall to superior numbers,” he tried to reason.

Petar Borisov Stoyanov beamed at him. “Those are just from the family. I put the word out, and we’ll have more people joining us from the villages. We’ll have the bootlicking lackeys of the Russians driven out in no time!”

“Merlin help me,” Viktor mumbled while the assembled wizards and witches cheered. He desperately tried to remember the tactics and strategy lessons from his Dark Arts teacher. Sadly, toppling your government hadn’t really been a course goal at Durmstrang, contrary to rumors in France and Britain.

*****

Luna was looking at the French Princess - others called her a prisoner, or an enemy, but everyone could see she was a Princess - through the scrying mirror set in the cell door. The woman was surrounded by Wrackspurts, a sizeable crowd, not deterred by her sobs and cries. Not many of the Others were around - no more than expected near any wizard or witch who had fought in the war. Luna still hoped Harry and Hermione would install anti-Other measures. She knew kissing helped drive them away and prevented them from nesting and breeding. At least they had done so in the cases she had tried it.

The Princess was vulnerable to them though, Luna could see that. She did not understand why the Others floating around her had red hair, but she would find that out. As soon as Harry and Hermione - she never thought of either of them alone these days, their love for each other was so obvious to her, and probably the only thing that kept their Others at bay - would allow her to visit.

Luna turned away from the mirror and looked at the wizard guarding the cell. “She looks quite sad and lost, don’t you think?” She was careful not to smile, people misunderstood her if she smiled. The man looked startled, but nodded, after a bit of hesitation. Luna smiled then, having driven off another Other.

*****

“Luna really wants to visit Marie d’Orléans.”

Harry Potter looked up from the note he was reading in his customary seat inside Hermione’s office.

His lover pointed at the parchment she had in hand. “It’s another request to visit her, ‘for an interview or just a talk’, as she writes.”

Harry was puzzled. “Why does she want to interview d’Orléans that badly?”

“I don’t know. You know Luna… her reasons do not often make sense to the rest of the world.”

Hermione shrugged. Harry knew that she had become a bit more tolerant about the possibility of unknown magical creatures like the Crumple-Horned Snorkack, given the Magical World’s general level of incompetence and ignorance, but for all that the blonde reporter was one of the couple’s best friend and had demonstrated some impressive insight in a number of matters in the pat, trying to understand Luna’s thoughts still left the youngest Minister for Magic baffled and confused. Seeing the two women talk about it was a cute and entertaining sight in Harry’s opinion, but he was always careful to hide his amusement in case Hermione had ended up with a headache ‘from the attempt to warp my mind into a shape it is not meant to be in’, as she once had put it.

“Why don’t we grant her permission? As long as we check what she’s planning to print afterwards, where is the harm?”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Hermione explained, running a hand through her hair.

Harry loved her hair, not quite as wild as in her teenage years, but still untamed. He liked to think it was a sign of the passion burning inside the woman, hidden behind the prim and proper face she could present to the world so easily.

“If we grant her permission because she’s our friend, then what example do we set? If we grant her permission as a reporter, then what do we do once the Daily Prophet wants the same privileges?” Hermione continued. Sighing in frustration, she put Luna’s letter down. “Maybe we’ll simply call her a consultant and claim she’s looking for more information about the Duc’s regime. She could be an untrained seer for all we know.”

Harry noded, not commenting on one of Hermione’s theories about the reason the blonde occasionally made deductions which were correct, but too difficult to follow even for his love.

Hermione wrote ‘approved’ on the parchment, signed it, and dropped it in the ‘out’ box on her desk, where it promptly vanished. “Now let’s talk about more serious matters.”

Harry put down his notes. “Politics and the war then.”

“Exactly. What’s the latest news from the ICW?”

“They’re concerned about the ‘unparalleled influence of the British Muggle Minister on magical matters’ but so far have been content with our claims that we haven’t changed our policy and still only inform the Prime Minister and close family members of magicals about magic,” Harry explained. “I’ve heard some rumour that they will even accept our government’s envoy as the British representative soon.”

“Even those inbred idiots at the helm there cannot ignore reality forever.” Hermione grinned. “Although if we look at the UN and how long it took to accept China… maybe we shouldn’t feel too smug.”

Harry coughed, swallowing his ‘Who’s this ‘we’ you speak of?’ comment. “The Prussian Representative who has been called back to serve as Prussian Minister of the Interiour a bit ago is back - and asking for asylum.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose. “Things in Prussia must be even worse than our news indicate. If Herbert Steiner abandoned his cousin, the Prussian Chancellor, then that might mean the pureblood government is finished sooner than expected.”

“I agree. It looks like Prussia’s in the middle of a full-blown civil war. And it’s an open war at that, with pitched battles in streets instead of mainly covert strikes like in our war.”

“Let’s hope that means less civilians massacred,” Hermione said - though she didn’t sound as if she really expected that to happen, in Harry’s opinion.

“If that is the case, then it’ll only last until one side wins. Then the purges will start.” Harry didn’t mention that this was exactly what they had done in Britain. He didn’t have to, Hermione knew what he was thinking.

“We didn’t execute innocents. I doubt the Freikorps will show that much restraint should they win. And if they win, half of Europe will be attacking them, and anyone who stands with them. Or appears to stand with them. We need to decide where we stand.” Hermione sighed. “Or rather, we need to decide if we intervene, or not.”

Harry closed his eyes. There it was, out in the open. Both the Prussian muggleborns and the Polish muggleborns had asked for support from Britain, as officially as groups fighting civil wars could get. With the Prussian government, or what was left of it, sealed in their Ministry building, hoping for relief that would never come, the other German Magical States had been only too happy to agree to an armistice with France, followed by peace talks as soon as the situation allowed it. With Russia still at war with all of the German states, and the French still trying to rebuild their magical government, that could take some time. In the meantime, the German muggleborns and the supporters of Grindelwald’s ideology were streaming into magical Prussia to support and join the warring factions.

“Intervening in that civil war is very dangerous, and will bind a lot of our forces for an indeterminate amount of time. Forces we might need to defend ourselves or our allies,” he said  
“Not intervening means we risk Prussia falling to a regime following Grindelwald’s ideology. That would likely reunite the currently fragmenting Eastern Europe under Russia’s leadership, and probably cause even more countries to go to war.”

“Prussia wouldn’t last long against that. Not without another Grindelwald,” Harry pointed out. “It already was struggling to deal with both France and Russia at the same time.”

“But Prussia would be beaten by pureblood governments, most of them currently at war with us. It wouldn’t take much to get the whole alliance fighting us. We could probably beat them, but not without more losses.”

“So, we either fight Grindelwald’s faction now, or most of Europe later. And the Polish muggleborns will need help as well.” Harry sighed. In a perfect world, the Freikorps and the Russians would kill each other off, and not fight Prussian respectively Polish muggleborns.

“We cannot spare enough forces to end both conflicts quickly. And favoring one over the other might lead to either the Polish or the Prussian muggleborns lose their war before we can help the second side.” Hermione’s voice held a hint of apology. She didn’t like this either. “Not to mention we’d be accused of betraying our allies.”

“We might be accused of that anyway.”

“Not if both wars are won,” Hermione said.

“And we’re seen helping. And probably have enough losses of our own,” Harry added in a cynical voice.

“We’re not about to sacrifice our troops in the hope for some more favorable image among our allies.”

“I doubt we’ll have to. Wars tend to take care of that on their own.”

“We’ll focus on training and support at first, I’d say, and just use a few strike teams in each country to keep the enemy off-balance.” Hermione pointed to a stack of papers. “There’s a proposed plan for that.”

Harry looked at it. “Ron’s?”

“Ron got most of the tactics. I took care of the supply end, and most of the strategy,” Hermione explained.

Harry frowned. “Why do I think you were not resting as much as you should have been when I was visiting Marcel and Remi?”

Hermione looked away, and tried to change the subject. “How are they doing, anyway? Still at odds?”

“Hermione!”

“I can rest as long as you want once the war is over!”

“No you can’t! I won’t let you do a repeat of our third year! Your work needs you well-rested! I need you healthy and not working yourself into exhaustion!” Harry glared and stood up, then walked over to Hermione’s desk. “It’s time for a break until tomorrow, love. You either come with me, or I stun you and carry out.”

She opened her mouth to object, but closed it again when she met his eyes, deflating and looking guilty.

“Sorry.” It sounded about as meek as Hermione could get - which wasn’t that meek.

He patted her shoulder, then bent down to kiss her. “If I am not allowed to risk myself, then you’re not allowed to do it either. Come on, your bed awaits you.”

“Only me? I am not too exhausted, you know…” Hermione smiled at Harry, and bit her lower lip in the way he found so adorable.

Harry grinned, but before he could answer they were interrupted by Hermione’s secretary: “Minister, there’s an urgent missive from Viktor Krum for you.”

Right then Harry would have gladly maimed Krum had the Bulgarian Star Seeker been around.

*****


	23. Falling

**Chapter 23: Falling**

Hermione Granger glanced over at Harry while he was reading Viktor’s letter. He was looking quite grumpy, she noticed. She didn’t think it was just the fact that their budding plans for the evening had been disrupted by the message. The witch hid her smile - Harry still had some lingering jealousy dating back to the Yule Ball, and had said more than once that he would have liked a proper seeker duel against Viktor.

“He wants help - troops and training and supplies, ‘only if we can spare it’, of course. How considerate of him!” Harry grumbled.

Hermione stood up and sent a locking spell at the door before walking over to him. She grinned at his raising eyebrows and sat down in his lap, wrapping her arms around him.

“I was his hostage, but I am your love,” she whispered and felt his arms tighten around her waist. The next minute was spent kissing, neither of them saying anything. She pulled back when she felt his hands starting to wander.

“We still have work to do, and this is not the best place to get some… rest,” she admonished him, though with a saucy smile to tide him over.

Harry made a show out of pouting, but nodded. Then he focused on the task at hand and grew serious. “So… what can we spare? And what are the risks? British weapons, or even soldiers, caught in Bulgaria is a bit different from them being caught in Poland or Germany.”

“Exactly. I think it’s better to point Viktor…” she had to grin at the way he frowned each time she called Krum by his given name. A guilty pleasure, she knew, but it made her feel good to see him react like that, “... and his men at the local black market for weapons. They should be able to acquire surplus soviet-era guns easily.”

“True. But they’ll still need instructors. A combined arms team is probably the lowest we can go without taking too many risks with their safety or delay their effect.”

Hermione agreed - Harry knew about teaching, he had a gift for it. “I think we can spare a strike team. There should be more recruits on the way who can fill in as a reserve in Britain.”

“Those, ah, marriages of convenience still going on?” Harry asked.

Hermione knew he was a bit, a tiny bit, uncomfortable with the way they were exploiting that particular loophole. She liked to think it was his romantic view of marriage, born from the idealized marriage of his parents, and reinforced by the Weasley family. The marriage of the Dursleys was left out, of course.

“Yes.” She nodded.

“Sally-Anne must be holding the record for marriages in the United Kingdom, maybe the world, by now.” Harry sounded slightly disapproving.

“She’s not the only one doing her part. And she is rendering an invaluable service to Wizarding Britain,” Hermioen said.

“I wonder what her parents will say about it.”

“They do not know. The records of her and the other marriages have been declared a state secret,” Hermione explained

She was feeling a bit of guilt about her own parents - it had been quite some time since they had had dinner together with her and Harry. With the war and all, the Grangers had been assigned bodyguards, and a secure and secret residence. They hadn’t been amused, to say the least, even though they had understood the necessity. But, coming after Hermione’s rather strong-handed way of keeping them safe during the Second Blood War, it hadn’t done much to help with her still strained relationship with her parents. At least they approved of Harry. If not for the war, Hermione was certain there would be talks about a wedding - it wasn’t as if she could claim she wanted to have a career first, before marrying, not as the youngest Minister for Magic ever. And she wasn’t certain Harry would back her up anyway - he was looking forward to their wedding as well. At least that was a rather safe topic for a family talk, compared to politics. It had not been a good evening when the Grangers had been told about the Marriage Law Revolution and their girl’s new position - and they didn’t even know about all the underhanded things Hermione and Harry had done to help that outcome along.

Harry muttered something that sounded like weak approval. Keeping secrets from family was another issue of his - one Hermione could understand. He had been kept in the dark for so long by Dumbledore and his cronies.

“So… we send one team to Bulgaria, to teach them how to use non-magical weapons. Ron is headed to Berlin with his mates to help the Muggleborn Movement. More teams and most of the Broom Corps go to Poland, helping the Polish muggleborns hold back the Russian War Wizards?” she summed up.

“Agreed. And now we head home, or I turn the door to stone and we hole up here for the night!”

Hermione laughed at Harry’s words and expression, planted a kiss on his lips, then grabbed her bag and unlocked the door. A wave of her wand sent the marching orders to the ‘outgoing’ bin on her desk.

*****

Ron Weasley looked at the Alte Strasse, once the main shopping mile of Magical Prussia. Now it was mostly ruins, burned out houses lining a cratered patch of cobblestones, a no-man’s land filled with jinxes, wards and hidden traps. The air stank of smoke and burned flesh, almost bad enough to warrant a Bubblehead Charm. He had thought Diagon Alley had looked bad after the French Invasion, but this… it looked like the Prussians hadn’t held back at all, and it was their own town!

At the other end of the street the Freikorps was holed up, ready to defend their last claim to the Heart of Magical Prussia. They had been pushed back house by house, corner by corner, cellar by cellar. Neither the British veterans of the Battle of the Bastille nor the Prussian members of the Bewaffnete Bewegung had had plans to fight it out at close quarters if it could be avoided, and so had tried to burn or otherwise force the defenders out or back whenever possible. Incendiary spells and devices had been pitted versus flame-freezing charms and anti-fire wards, in small sieges that lasted until the defenders’ position became untenable, at which point they usually stormed out, trying to break through the British and Prussian lines. Sometimes, especially when supported by the reserves of the Freikorps, they managed, more often they broke under massed fire, with few if any surrendering.

Just about everyone with a talent or training for warding the Prussians could spare was busy maintaining and replacing the Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey Jinxes and Wards covering the Ministry - where no one seemed to even try to take them down - and the increasingly frantic Freikorps forces caught in their end of the Alte Strasse. Ron didn’t like that. It made sense, of course, but with no way out, and seeing their destruction approach slowly, but seemingly unstoppable, the Korps wizards opposing them would soon be desperate. And desperate men took desperate measures. No one thought they would surrender. Not the Prussian muggleborns, not the British forces. Not after days of fighting in this forsaken street.

Ron turned to Kurt Müller, the surviving leader of the forces of the Bewaffnete Bewegung in Berlin. “The last house had less defenders than we expected. They must have pulled most of them out in time.”

“They have stopped trying to delay us by holding on to every house as long as possible then. Either they do not expect any relief forces, or they have arrived. Either way, they will be preparing for a decisive battle.”

Müller was smart. Ron nodded. “Exactly. And they have seen our usual tactic, and will be preparing for it.”

This puzzled Müller. “But what can they do? We have proven that they cannot attack us without suffering terrible losses, since they are unable to apparate to our lines, or otherwise avoid the machine guns and other defenses.”

“That’s the big question. Maybe they are simply hoping they’ll somehow be enough to break through if all of them come. But if they have a better plan then we could be in trouble.” Ron looked the street over again. Tunnelling was impossible; they had blocked that off and had alert wards in the sewers, to keep them from escaping that way. The Korps couldn’t use brooms either to flee - a number of machine gunners were on the roofs, ready to serve as anti-aircraft artillery, of sorts. And a frontal assault on foot or broom would lead them straight into prepared kill zones. Ruins really made for great cover for soldiers, as the young redhead had learned. He couldn’t think of anything, and it unnerved him. “Pull half the forces back. We need more reserves.”

Müller looked like he wanted to argue, but didn’t say anything. Instead he relied the order. After a few days of bloody, nasty street fighting both men had the measure of each other, and Müller had acknowledged Ron’s better training and experience. Helped along greatly, Ron knew, by his reputation as a hero of the Second Blood War and the victor of the Siege of Hogwarts and the Battle of the Bastille. When he saw the men and women wearing British and surplus Bundeswehr uniforms fall back, Ron felt somewhat relieved. At least he had sizable reserves now, to react to whatever would be happening. Soon.

He studied the big stone building that formed the heart of the Freikorps’ stronghold. Apparently it had been a fortified merchant’s house in the medieval age, which had been converted into a pureblood family house after the Statute of Secrecy, and reinforced with enough hardened stone to soak a panzerfaust hit - they had tried that a few times before realizing that the Korps must have either filled the rooms facing the street with stone, or were holed up underground. Either way it meant that to crack the stronghold they would have to either use explosives on a scale that would blow up the Statute of Secrecy, or get sappers with shaped charges close in - a suicide mission the Bewegung had tried already, contributing to another big crater in the street. Maybe if they dropped it from a helicopter from above… but aiming it would be very difficult, even more so than hiding the blast from muggle eyes.

His thoughts were interrupted when shouts and mirror messages from the vanguard - radio didn’t work on a battlefield that thick with wards and jinxes and charms - alerted them to movement at the house. Ron raised his binoculars and saw the stone walls of the building crumbling, smashed from the inside by blocks of stone moving through them, towards the Muggleborn lines. No weapon would stop that. Before they got into spell range though suddenly small cans trailing smoke were banished towards the positions of the British-Prussian forces, and thick smoke quickly filled the street, breaking line of sight to the moving stone blocks. A quick thinking wizard used some spell to disperse the smoke somewhat, and more spells flew at the blocks, but with the exception of one that was stopped, the rest smashed into the fortified positions. They lacked enough force to break through, but they would certainly serve to break the line of fire, allowing the Korps to get close without getting cut down by machine guns.

“Get a few brooms up with machine guns, we need suppressive fire on their end of the street right now!” Ron bellowed, wishing for a few mortars zeroed in on that part of the street. Then the stone blocks, each almost as large as his room at home, melted away - no, they were transfigured into a shiny liquid… Ron’s eyes widened in horror as he realized what was happening.

“Frontline, fall back, now!” he shouted even as the gasoline the stone blocks had been changed into ignited, turning the street into an inferno.

Then the Korps, some on foot but most on brooms, charged out of the ruins of their stronghold, towards the burning frontlines of the British-Prussian lines, where those among Ron’s forces who had not been ready with Flame-Freezing and Bubblehead Charms just in case were either already dead, or burning and choking while trying to cast. Not many could even try, the blazing inferno was too big, too hot and had happened too fast. And even those who were prepared were shocked for a moment, surprised and disoriented by the sheer size of the firestorm they found themselves in. The Freikorps, of course, had been prepared with both charms, and opened paths in the flames they could charge through, wands spitting curses at the defenders.

“Fire! Keep them from breaking through!” Ron ordered, pulling out his own light machine gun.

If they could keep the Korps penned up in the burning ruins, or between the frontline and the reserves… more and more guns started firing, followed by some banished objects flying towards the enemy line. Someone brave got close enough to transfigure the rubble on the street into caltrops, which stopped a group of Korps wizards long enough for them to get cut down by flanking fire. The flying Freikorps though was not impeded by such spells, and far faster. A number of them were still shot down, but many reached the second line, where the reserves had gathered around Ron and Müller. Half of the Korps wizards jumped off their brooms, right into the ranks of their enemies, and started casting at knife-fighting range, the others flew on and then turned, engaging the British and Bewegung fliers. They had far too few broom riders of their own, Ron realised. They had sent their best British fliers to Poland and the Prussian muggleborns lacked experienced broom riders to start with.

Then he had to shield against a Piercing Hex from a Korps wizard next to him. Ron let his machine gun drop to dangle from its strap and used a Cutting Curse to kill the wizard attacking him. All around him people were fighting and dieing, Movement, Freikorps and British forces, in a chaotic, crazy melee. It was insane, yet it made sense, he knew while hitting the back of a Korps member with a Bludgeoning Curse that caved his skull in. The British machine guns could not fire into the middle of this madness, and they couldn’t pull back fast enough to get clear. It was kill or be killed, kill and be killed, at a range where your opponent’s blood would splatter yourself and three other people. All Ron and the rest of his troops caught up in this massacre could do was get close to an ally and cover each other as best they could.

Ron found an SAS mate of his, Brackton, who was using his bayonet as a combat knife together with his pistol, gutting and shooting a young woman in Korps robes. Blood ran all over the soldier’s arms. Ron smashed an elbow into the face of an older man who tried to get up from the ground then blew his head off with a Reductor Curse while he was reeling from the blow. Suddenly something hit his leg and hip - Bone-Breaking Curse, he recognised it as he was sent spinning, falling down. He cried out in pain, but kept his wand in hand, raising a slab of stone at his back to protect him somewhat. Ron couldn’t do anything about the broken bones, other than numbing his leg. Grinding his teeth, he shifted into a less exposed position, firing two Piercing Hexes at an old woman with a scarred face that was trying to hex a Prussian in fatigues into the back. Then he had to cower behind his Shield Charm while a series of unknown spells hit it. Before the shield shattered someone took care of that caster.

A few meters away a broom rider crashed down, bowling over three wizards. Another broom rider followed in what even Harry would have judged a great Wronski feint, blowing the man and broom and two of the downed wizards apart with a Reducto. When he pulled up, someone got him with a curse in the back, and the man fell from his broom, right into a burning patch of… Fiendfyre?

Ron cursed loudly. A fool had used Fiendfyre right in the middle of the battle, and he had a broken leg! The broom rider screamed as he burned alive, and the flames grew, catching two more, a Korps Wizard and a British trooper, turning both into living, screaming torches. Around Ron everyone scattered - the cursed fire was too much even for those who had been caught up in the killing. That gave his troops the room to organize, and shots and bursts were fired, hopefully taking care of the Korps. A Prussian witch ran towards Ron, coming dangerously close to the spreading fiendfyre. Ron, already pulling out his shrunken broom, yelled at the woman to get away, but she ignored him, only noticing he was not trapped when he had pulled himself on his resized broom. Behind her the cursed fire rushed forward - whoever had conjured it had obviously lost control, if he ever had had it - and Ron reached out with his hand, gripping hers just as the fire reached her. She was screaming, burning, while Ron pulled both away, his broken hip almost causing him to pass out with pain despite the numbing spell.

Ron didn’t remember where or how he got down, only that someone extinguished the flames burning the girl’s feet and legs, and someone else pulled him away, hopefully to a healer. He didn’t know where Müller was, or Brackton, but judging by the way the wounded were being taken care of, he guess his side had won the battle. He didn’t want to know at what cost.

*****

Sergeant Albert Nott, career noncom in the British army, heir to the fortune of the Nott family - what was left of it after two wars the Head of the family had been on the losing side of - was looking at the sorriest excuse for recruits he had ever seen. He and Sergeant Arthur “Artie” Wilkinson, detached from the SAS to this mission, were to teach those Bulgarian wizards how to use assault rifles without killing themselves or their friends. At least that was the plan. Albert wasn’t sure if the wizards even understood enough English to understand what he was telling and showing them. Krum had said so, but Krum wasn’t here. The famous seeker - and how had Albert had troubles to explain that sport to Artie! The only thing Artie had understood, after hearing about Krums legendary catch at the ‘Cup of 1994 had been that Bulgarian’s keeper had to have been worse than the average keeper of the English national football team - was off to ‘procure’ more AK-47s of dubious origin and quality, leaving the two British soldiers with not enough magic between them to light a candle with those ‘recruits’. Eager like puppies, and about as useful, was Nott’s impression - had he been that gangly and naive, when he had left the Magical World so long ago to join the British Army? He hoped not. The wizard of their team, Kyle, was off to teach tactics to another group of Bulgarians, and the officer in command of their squad, Lieutenant Baker, was ‘taking care of supplies’, which Nott understood was officer speak for ‘flirting with the young lady cooking for the soldiers’.

Grunting, he exchanged a glance with Artie, then raised the AK-47 to demonstrate again how to switch from semi-automatic to automatic fire. A short demonstration of the difference with a handy cardboard target had the recruits talking excitedly to each other in Bulgarian, further lowering Nott’s estimate of their grasp on the English language. At least no one had injured himself today. Nott still made sure he was wearing his flak vest before handing out actual rifles to the recruits and lining them up across the targets. When this war was over, he told himself, he’d retire to the Nott mansion’s wine cellar and wouldn’t come out again until after a week had passed. He would have definitely earned that, he already had the headache he’d get from it.

*****

Viktor Krum landed near the revolutionary camp - carefully, of course. He didn’t want to risk the ire of that loud British soldier again when he had buzzed their instruction lesson yesterday. His pockets were full of shrunken rifles, and even a few RPGs. Hermione’s idea to use local weapons was very good - a number of the relatives of some of his muggleborn wizards were trained in their use. Viktor didn’t have that much faith in the new recruits getting taught by the British, but they were eager, willing, and could speak English. And they were good flyers already. He knew that broom riders that could kill an enemy from hundreds of meters away would be a major factor in the coming battle with the Ministry’s Aurors and the Russian ‘occupation forces’, as his propaganda group - formerly the crew responsible for the official newsletter of his fanclub - was calling them. The Ministry forces were still combing the borders to Romania, thanks to some well-placed rumours, and the Russians were busy keeping order in the capital, so they could train in relative peace.

Things were going well, better than expected. Not only had Hermione sent a team to train his wizards, but also some supplies. A number of his pureblood school friends from Durmstrang had been complaining about muggleborns and even muggles in the ranks of the revolutionary forces, but a small session with the British Soldiers followed by some Skele-Gro potions had straightened them out.

He dismounted from his broom - his finest, latest model, an equal to the latest Firebolt if he could trust his sponsor - and returned the salute of the guard at the camp. He still felt strange, leading a revolution, but was getting used to it. At least unlike fans, members of the revolutionary forces more or less did listen to him. Usually.

Entering the main tent he glared at Lieutenant Baker. The man was far too close to his cousin, little Stefka Stevanova. Or not so little anymore, judging by the glare he received from her when the British officer suddenly found a reason to return to his three soldiers. Viktor dropped the food he had gathered with her, letting her unshrink it, and decided not to comment on the far too common British presence in the kitchen.

Not that he had anything against British, or muggles. Really. Hermione would have his hide. But Stefka… hadn’t it been just a year since she had graduated from school? And what would her mother say, if she came home with a British muggle soldier? More importantly, what would her mother say to him, Viktor? No matter what he did, he was bound to get into trouble with at least one hot-tempered witch. Sighing, he conjured a chair for himself and pondered the dangers of war.

*****

“To our right!” Neville shouted into Ginny Weasley’s ear as the two were flying, disillusioned, on her broom over the fields and forests of Eastern Poland. The redhead squinted her eyes and looked down at the patch he was pointing at. Had he found the Russians they were looking for? She could only spot some birds rising from the treetops… but that would have a cause. Then the young witch, or rather her enchanted goggles spotted some blurs near the treetops, moving too fast and steady for birds. “Tell headquarters!” she shouted back, turning around for a closer look while Neville pulled the communication mirror out.

Neville was relaying their position - hopefully correct this time, he had had some troubles a bit ago - to the rest of the British-Polish forces when Ginny discovered that enchanted goggles were not exclusive to British Broom riders. From above them two brooms dove at them. Ginny saw them at the last moment, and had to abruptly bank to the right to avoid a green curse shot at them. The redhead evaded more spells at the cost of losing speed while the Russian wizards tried to box them in, coming from both above and below them. Like a pack of flying wolves.

Ginny was cursing in a manner that would have had her mum scourgify her mouth while Neville opened fire at their pursuers with his enchanted machine gun. Sadly, due to Ginny’s wild evasive maneuvers, he didn’t hit anyone - or not before they got Shield Charms up - but he did cause them to fall back a bit, granting the two British flyers enough time to gain some distance despite their broom being slower with two riders instead of one on it. That allowed Ginny to fly steady enough for Neville to aim more carefully. The young wizard yelled with glee when his bursts, visible by the tracer rounds used, sent one, then another Russian to the ground.

While Neville was firing without pause - the enchanted weapons supposedly could fire forever, but Ginny didn’t think anyone had tested that - the redhead was edging their broom on. Fortunately, it seemed as if the Russians after them were not too experienced on brooms, they were slower than expected, even given their need to fly evasively in the face of Neville’s machine gun. Unless…

Ginny couldn’t react in time when a racing broom came at them right out of the sun, and an unknown curse hit their broom and sent them spiraling down. Ginny activated her emergency portkey but it didn’t work. A quick glance at Neville showed that whatever hat hit the broom had hit the wizard too, his face was a grimace of pain. They were still falling, the broom not responding.

“Wingardium leviosa!” Ginny shouted the spell, trying to float the broom with them on it, but all it did was slowing their fall. Neville managed to cast a levitation spell as well, which almost made them float - and also turned them into a stationary target for the Russian.

“Cushioning Charm, ready!” Ginny yelled, ended the sticking charm on both of them, and then jumped off the broom.

The landing, despite the cushioning charm, was harder than Ginny had expected. She felt something break in her leg, and if she survived this, her body would be changing color from the bruises alone. Neville was worse off though - he was unconscious, bleeding from the spell that hit him. Ginny couldn’t do much more than a quick Episkey, hopefully slowing the bleeding if not stopping it, then sent a Blasting Curse up into the air, trying to scare the attacking flyers away before grabbing Neville’s machine gun.

She braced the weapon against her hip, thanking Merlin that it was charmed to have no recoil, and pulled the finger on the trigger of the enchanted gun, sending bullets into the air into the direction of the Russian flyers coming at her. They scattered, but did not get hit. But neither did their hasty spells hit the British. Ginny conjured some stone slabs to grant them better cover, and kept firing. She barely noticed Neville waking up, nor his shouts into the mirror, while she fended off the flying Russians. She also didn’t notice how she felt more and more lightheaded, until she slumped over, and the world turned black.

*****

“Hello! My name is Luna Lovegood!”

Luna smiled at the French Princess after she had opened the door to her room. The Wrackspurts around her had grown in number, but thankfully, the redheaded Others had not. Luna was still not sure why those Others had red heads, the only other Others with such uniform colors had been the black-headed ones near Snape, when he was still the potions teacher at Hogwarts. The Princess shook her head, dislodging some Wrackspurts, then stood up, inviting her in. Happily, Luna accepted the invitation.

“I am here to talk to you.”

The blonde beamed at the Princess while she sat down next to her on the bed. The Princess looked surprised - apparently she had expected Luna to sit on the chair across from the bed. No wonder she had so many Wrackspurts - that would have made no sense, Luna wouldn’t be able to hug the Princess if she did that!

*****


	24. Bóg Honor Ojczyzna!

**Chapter 24: Bóg Honor Ojczyzna!**

Makary Bercik was panting, sweat soaking his fatigues, as he threw himself behind the remains of a tree felled earlier in the battle over two downed British broom riders. To his right the earth erupted from another Bombarda - the Russian War Wizards truly loved the spell. Some claimed it was because they couldn’t aim, but anyone facing them would know this to be false - or would be dead already. He waited until the dirt thrown up had fallen down, adding more spots to his fatigues, then disillusioned himself and dashed forward to the next tree, firing a Blasting Curse of his own at where he thought the Russian wizard was. He didn’t hear a scream, so he had probably guessed wrong.

Behind him a British machine gun opened up, riddling a group of trees 200 meters away with bullets. Not for long, of course - staying still for too long at one spot without hard cover, wards if possible, was asking to be killed. They had learned that the hard way. Makary inched forward, scanning the frontline, or what passed for it in this forested area. In the middle of a clearing the two British flyers were still where they had fallen, protected by what looked like conjured stone walls and some truly impressive shield that had withstood several Bombardas until Makary and his comrades had arrived, and forced the Russians to fall back.

Not that the two were out of danger. Both sides had laid down Anti-Portkey and Anti-Apparition Jinxes over the entire area, standard tactics, and so they couldn’t be evacuated easily. In the air, broom riders were dashing around, disillusioned all, waiting for someone to expose himself - or for a flyer to expose himself while going after a ground target. At least a Healer had made it to the crash site, though he didn’t know if either of the British wounded was still alive.

There! In front of Makary a Russian had run into an Anti-Disillusionment Jinx! Makary sent a Bone-Breaker Curse, a Piercing Curse, and a Jelly-Leg Jinx at him. The Shield Charm of the wizard kept the first two spells from hitting, but broke under the strain, and the jinx sent him stumbling to the floor. Before he could finite it Makary had cast a Bombarda that blew the Russian apart and left a smoking crater.

Cries to his left alerted him to another danger - someone, probably the Russians, had set the forest there ablaze. Makary hoped the fool had burned to death, and shouted: “Use flame freezing charms!” to the Polish wizards on that flank.

“We tried, it’s not working, it must be Fiendfyre!”

Fiendfyre, or some other dark fire spell. It didn’t really matter, no one could stop such a fire in the middle of a battle. On the other hand, with such a large fire already spreading, a bit more wouldn’t increase the mess, much.

He passed the word, and while his left flank was retreating, two British soldiers ran up to him. A Russian broom rider dove at them, only to be ripped apart by a machine gunner from a British broom that had been waiting for that. The two reached Makary’s position, and threw themselves down next to him, where one of them started to pull out cylindrical devices from enchanted pockets, passing four of them to Makary and keeping four to herself. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

The second soldier sat up and started to fire long bursts from his machine gun while Makary and the British witch banished the cylinders at the positions of the Russians - or at what they thought their positions were. Judging from the screams they heard when the napalm bombs unshrunk and exploded, at least some of their guesses had been correct. Makary hoped many of the Russian invaders burned to death while he and the other Polish and British fighters withdrew from the inferno they had turned this Polish forest into. The heat from the fires would hamper the broom riders and the smoke would be covering their retreat.

While running back towards the edge of the Anti-Apparition Jinxes Makary finally saw the two British broom riders. One was a slip of a girl, unconscious and very pale, with long red hair, the other a tall man, wand in wand and frowning. Both were floating, dragged by several witches, protected by a Shield Charm - cast and sustained by the wounded wizard, Makary realized. Remarkable.

*****

“I will not betray my country!” the French Princess snarled at Luna Lovegood. “I may not have much left, but I still have my honour!”

Luna smiled in return. “I am not asking you to. I am not asking you anything at all. I am here to talk to you.”

The Wrackspurts around the witch increased in numbers. Luna knew Wrackspurts were driven away by clear thoughts, but whenever she started to explain things to people, the numbers of Wrackspurts seemed to grow, at least at the start. It was a mystery worthy of a few articles, she decided. Once she had the time to study this phenomenon. Now though she had to focus on battling the Others around the Princess. If she did not many, many Others would spawn, infecting many more people. She didn’t know exactly how, the Others were still much of a mystery to her, but she knew it would happen. But not on her watch!

“I’ve lost my mother when I was a little girl. I know it hurts. I lost a lot of friends in the war. And I’ve done terrible things. We all have. And that hurts too. Even more than losing family and friends.”

As Luna went on to tell the French witch about her life, and her pain, she could see the Wrackspurts starting to leave, and the Others lose their grips. By the time she finished, the Princess was sobbing into her shoulder, hugging her with as much strength as Hermione. Luna’s ribs ached a bit, and her dress would have an interesting stain, but the Others had almost all left. There wouldn’t be a nest here. Nor would the Princess take Others with her when she returned to her country.

She smiled when the door opened. From what she could see, the Others trying to get their claws into the guard there, who had been listening to them, were gone as well.

*****

Ron Weasley woke up in a hospital bed, feeling as if he had just gone through a full day of sparring against that Sergeant back in Britain. His hip and legs were still hurting. A nurse saw that he was awake and rushed out, presumably to call a Healer. Or doctor. Ron wasn’t certain where he was, but the signs looked German, and it didn’t look like a tent.

A grey-haired woman - witch, she had a wand - entered, smiling with all the compassion Madam Pomfrey usually showed. Ron winced just remembering.

“Ah, officer Weasley. You’ve suffered a broken hip and burns on your legs, and a few minor wounds not worth mentioning. We’ve vanished the broken bones and repaired the tissue damage they caused before regrowing them with Skele-Gro. The burns on your legs were cursed, so we couldn’t do anything about the scars, but you’ll be able to walk again as soon as your hip is whole again. Which will take another day. Do you have any questions?” She spoke with clinical detachment.

Ron missed Pomfrey - the Matron used to be furious with students taking risks, but it showed she cared. This Healer didn’t seem to care much. Or she had simply seen too much in the last few days. “Can I see someone from my unit? I’d like to know how the battle ended.”

“Visitors are allowed during the day.” The Healer stepped out of the room, leaving the nurse and Ron alone.

“Please excuse her, Sir. She’s been working for a few days,” the nurse apologized. Ron nodded. Probably hopped up on Calming Draughts and Pepper-Up potions - he’d seen people doing that before, in the field.

The nurse bent forward, and smiled widely. “You’ve won. The Freikorps was routed, and most were killed! You’re a hero!”

Ron smiled back, a bit weakly. He didn’t feel like a hero. “There was a witch with me when I arrived at the rally spot. She was burning. Did she make it?”

“Larissa Schmidt? Yes, she did. Her legs were burned worse than yours, but she’ll be able to walk again as well. And with some cosmetic surgery, she’ll be able to wear short skirts again.”

“Cosmetic surgery?” Unless Ron had missed something, that sounded muggle.

“Oh, yes. Cursed wounds are resistant to magic, but non-magical treatment usually can deal with them just fine. We saved a lot of patients who had been hit with Sectumsempra with stitches.” The Nurse beamed. Definitely a muggleborn.

“Oh. I thought the threads would melt when applied to a cursed wound.” At least they had when they had tried that on his father’s wounds from Nagini, back in the Second Blood War.

“Not at all. It works very well, and if needed we can cast magic on the thread to make it impervious to damage.” The nurse laughed.

She probably thought he was some ignorant pureblood. Ron thought he should feel annoyed, but didn’t. He was likely still under the influence of a Calming Draught himself. He thought about asking why the muggleborns hated Grindelwald’s Korps so much, the Dark Lord had recruited heavily among muggleborns after all, but decided not to. It wasn’t as if there hadn’t been blood feuds between purebloods on both sides in Britain either.

*****

Vladimir Petrovich Volodin sat on his bunk, feeling too exhausted even to cast a cleaning spell on his robes, still muddy and dusty. He had just returned from a stupid attempt to capture two stupid British broom riders who had crashed in the middle of nowhere in Poland. He and three more of his comrades, out of 10. All muggleborn, of course. The Tsar’s commanders wouldn’t waste pureblood War Wizards on such a suicide mission. Well, they were all muggleborns but for Sasha, their leader. She was a half-blood, and rumour had it she was here because she had spurned the advances of a pureblood.

He glanced at his side. Her bunk was still empty. She must still be dealing with paperwork. Probably got shouted at for their failure to defeat half the British and Polish Army. A bit away, Konstantin was scourgifying his robes. Twice. The man was obsessed with cleanliness, the war was hard for him. Vladimir exchanged a smirk with Klava, the other witch in the tent. After almost burning to death in that inferno, they needed to find humor wherever they could.

Vladimir wished he could sleep, but whenever he closed his eyes he saw Grisha stumble in that damned forest, saw him frantically trying to finite the spell on his legs, and then saw him getting blown to bits by a Bombarda. He would need a bottle to sleep tonight, he knew. Most did.

Sasha entered the tent, looking mad as usual. She was an attractive witch with long blonde hair, but her character was... Spirited, his father would call her. Vladimir called it a wicked temper and a tongue so sharp she could cast a piercing curse without a wand. She was a decent leader though. And she wasn’t a pureblood.

“Listen up, comrades! The Tsar’s commander is not too happy with our lack of success today. He thinks we should have easily captured two British wizards our pureblood broom riders couldn’t capture by themselves, and as punishment we’ve got no leave for the week. And probably another mission far too soon.”

Vladimir and the others simply nodded. All had been in the Tsar’s forces long enough to understand how things worked. Muggleborn got the short end of the stick, half-bloods got the rest, and purebloods got to use the stick to beat on both. Or something like that.

Sasha cast a Silencing and a locking spell on the tent and pulled out two bottles of vodka from her robes, passing them around before sitting down on her bunk. Vladimir grabbed one, opened it and filled his tin cup to the brim before passing to back to Sasha. Once everyone had their cup filled they toasted their fallen comrades, their future comrades, and whatever excuses they could think of for another cup.

“If only we had some AK-47s. We could show the British and Polish what Russia’s made of.” Konstantin was grumbling again. His father had fought in Afghanistan, and he knew a lot of war stories.

Sasha emptied her fourth cup and snorted. “If we had kalashnikovs I wouldn’t use them on the Polish or British bastards.”

The other three froze. It could mean she didn’t want to use muggle weapons, but it could also mean…

Vladimir would later blame his fifth cup of vodka - the other four obviously were innocent - for what he said next. “Why walk so far if you can start shooting at home, right?”

Again everyone froze, then his comrades nodded, laughed, and drank some more while Konstantin explained how easy it would be to get some kalashnikovs. He had done so before, but Sasha hadn’t listened that attentively then, Vladimir realised. He looked at her, eyes meeting over the last cup of vodka. She nodded at him, and he understood. It wasn’t about the kalashnikovs.

*****

Her mum was going to kill her, Ginny Weasley knew that right when she woke up. Getting hurt, crashing a broom, almost getting captured - if she ever returned home she’d be locked up in her room until she was a grandmother. If she’d ever manage that, locked in her room. If she ever made it back, that was. Poland was quite different from France, at least for her. Instead of one big battle that won the war it was day after day of sorties, scouting for the enemy, intercepting enemy broom riders, often not having success at either. Well, until today. Or yesterday. She remembered the broom fight, the crash, and shooting until she dropped. And getting enervated by a Healer in the middle of a Polish field, under Neville’s Shield Charm, only to faint right away again.

Neville… she looked over to the bed next to her. Neville was there, asleep still. He had been wounded, that much she had understood when she had woken up first in the field hospital, but she didn’t remember how. She knew though that he had saved her life. If not for the Blood Replenishing Potion he had poured down her throat or the quick Episkey to slow the bleeding, or the Shield Charm to protect them against the Russian spells she’d be dead. Of course, if not for her flying, and her shooting, he’d be dead. Maybe it evened out - not that anyone was counting in war.

When Neville woke up the two started putting together what had happened while one or the other had been unconscious. They’d need it for the debriefing anyway, and for the getting chewed out. Ginny didn’t feel like she or Neville had made a mistake, but she crashed, lost a broom, almost lost her life - she’d get chewed out. It was almost like being at home, just that her mum could be far worse than her commander if she got worked up. Ginny grinned at that thought - her resistance to such lectures drove the commander mad, she’d heard that from several others.

A bit later she wasn’t feeling so amused anymore. It turned out that whatever spell had hit their broom and Neville’s left leg had caused both to stop working, and no one knew what spell it had been, and how to counter it. Ginny was certain someone would find out, though. Hopefully before they went along with Neville’s suggestion to cutting it off and regrowing it. She almost hit him for that, if not for the presence of the Healers. At least her scowl had made him cringe.

*****

Harry Potter was once again reading in his favorite chair in Hermione’s office. As long as Hermione didn’t actually propose to reassign his own office to someone who actually used it more than an hour a day he knew she didn’t really mind his presence. Sometimes it felt like they were back in the Gryffindor common room. He glanced over at her, reading another letter from Krum. He wasn’t going to ask what the Bulgarian had written. If it was important for Britain she’d tell him. And if it wasn’t he didn’t care. Honestly.

Hermione looked up and smirked at him, and he scowled, demonstratively looking at the note in his hand. He didn’t care!

Hermione’s tone was still amused when she started to rely the content of her letter. “Viktor sends his regards, and thanks us for the help provided. He thinks it’ll be enough to take over, given the support from the population he enjoys.”

“That’s all?”

“The rest are just personal questions, nothing of importance to the war or Britain.” She was still smirking. Personal questions? What personal questions? He hadn’t even realized his note had dropped to the floor.

Giggling, she handed him the letter, stealing a quick kiss at the same time. “Read for yourself, silly.”

Harry skimmed it. Thanks, some bragging about his popularity, probably overestimating himself, and questions about… British marriage customs? Krum’s cousin and who?

He looked up at Hermione, who shrugged and spread her hands.

“It seems as if the officer in charge of the team we sent has either seduced his sweet innocent cousin or has been seduced by said sweet innocent cousin, and Viktor wants to know what he can do before his family learns of that development.”

Harry blinked, then grinned.

“Honestly, it’s not that funny. It could create some political problems. We might need some legislature concerning war brides and grooms,” Hermione said, but she was fighting her own grin.

Compared to wondering if the Austrian government would try to use the war against Russia for an attempt to restore the Austrian-Hungarian Hegemony destroyed by Grindelwald, and how the Ottomans would react should Russia be driven from Bulgaria and Romania, it really was funny.

Trying to piece together some advice for Viktor that wouldn’t lead to more problems turned out to be even funnier. Both felt a lot better than usual when they went home.

*****

Viktor Krum rubbed his eyes, trying to ignore the smirk his sweet innocent - hah! - cousin Stefka Stefanova wore when she forgot that he had the trained eyes of a seeker, always watching his surroundings. Lieutenant Baker of course was staring straight ahead, standing in a position the soldiers called ‘at ease’, or so Viktor understood. He wished he knew what he could do about this scandal. As Hermione’s letter had explained British muggles didn’t duel over the honor of their female relatives anymore. She had also pointed out that even if they did duel still, Lieutenant Baker would have the right to choose the weapons, and he would surely pick pistols, leaving unsaid that this would very likely lead to the demise of one Bulgarian star seeker. Besides it was all too clear to Viktor that ‘James’, as Stefka called him, had been the one getting seduced.

But it left him in a dire spot. If Stefka’s parents heard about this - and they would, such a thing could never be kept secret in the camp - then there would be hell to pay. By him. Why couldn’t he deal with simple things like toppling his own government, driving out the Russians and keeping the Turks at bay? Things were going well on that front, if one could call it a front. So far they had not fought a real battle, most Auror forces in the field had either fled or gone over to the rebel side when they met his forces. And according to his spies the Russians had been reduced to a skeleton force that was holed up with the remnants of the Bulgarian government in the capital after their best wizards had been called off to fight in Poland.

And now this!

“Sir, I take full responsibility for this… incident,” Lieutenant Baker interrupted his thoughts.

Before he could continue or Viktor could say anything, Stefka squealed.

“I accept! I’ll call mother to prepare the wedding!”

Viktor’s cousin kissed the British soldier, leaving the man even more baffled than before, waved at the still staring former rebel leader, and left the tent in a hurry.

Viktor closed his eyes again. His aunt would hex him into a puddle.

“Ah… sir?”

Viktor held up a hand. “Give me a moment, please.” A muggle in the family. And everyone would blame him. He sighed. “When a man states in such a situation that he is taking responsibility for his actions it means he intends to marry the girl he was … overly affectionate ... with.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.” Viktor didn’t think the man had intended to propose, but if he or anyone else told that to Stefka, there would be curses flying. Dark ones. He had to set this right. “Do you love her?”

“Yes, sir.” No hesitation there.

“Then you don’t hurt her.”

“I understand sir. I won’t, sir.”

“Good.” It seemed he did know Stefka, after all. “While the wedding will be here, I strongly suggest you choose to live in Britain. Some of your future in-laws do not look that kindly upon muggles.”

“Stefka told me that already, sir.”

Viktor couldn’t help thinking that Stefka was even less innocent or surprised by this development than he had assumed. Ah well, she was his favorite cousin, after all. “Good.” He checked Hermione’s letter again. “I also strongly suggest to have a civil wedding in Britain with your family.” He stood up. “That said, welcome to the family.”

Both men were smiling a bit weakly when they shook hands, but their grips were firm.

*****

Two weeks after the Battle for the Broom Flyers, as the Polish called it, Makary Bercik was once again in a pitched battle in Eastern Poland. Scouts had discovered a Russian camp in the middle of a thick forest, and Polish and British forces had quickly moved to engage. When the Russians had stood their ground despite their surprise, Makary had known there were War Wizards present - in the last week, most normal Russian forces had fled quickly when they had been attacked. According to rumors, there even had been one clash between Russian forces during a retreat.

But this camp housed War Wizards, and the fighting was tough. They had improved their overlapping shields, stacking them so even a direct hit from an RPG could only break one shield, but not the ones beneath it. And hitting them with multiple RPGs at the same time while spells were flying left and right and disillusioned broom riders attacked from the air was a challenge even for the best British Soldiers. So they had to do it the hard way - clear out the skirmishers and other wizards and the broom riders while keeping the War Wizards too busy maintaining the shields to drop them for an instant of quick lethal casting. It worked, but not without mounting losses.

Both sides had learned that trees were just an invitation for the enemy to set them ablaze, so landscaping spells that cleared trees had become very popular very quickly. The area around the camp was no longer a lush forest, but a cratered wasteland, where the remnants of trees were half-buried under mud and earth, fire licking at some of the trunks.

Not the best terrain for skirmishers, but good enough - the craters and mounds of wood and earth provided good cover, even while the mud sometimes revealed the footsteps of a disillusioned wizard. If not for the fact that the Polish and British forces were wearing fatigues and the Russians robes one would have a hard time distinguishing friends from foes too due to mud covering everyone but the shielded War Wizards from head to foot.

Makary slid into the next crater while working his way towards the camp. In front of him a series of explosions ripped more craters into the earth. He couldn’t tell if it was done by Bombardas or muggle explosives.

A bit away a broom crashed into the ground. Makary could not tell whose side the rider was on or if he was still alive before someone buried the remains under a conjured slab of stone. He was getting a bit nervous - there were far fewer skirmishers than he had come to expect. Usually half their forces would be hiding under cloaks of invisibility or disillusion spells, engaging the wizards and witches that came close enough to start dismantling the fire wards on the camp. The battle in the air was as fierce as usual, at least as far as he could tell from the glimpses he had managed, but the ground was relatively quiet - too quiet.

No matter. Two more craters and he had reached the ward lines. Behind him, Ada had followed, sliding up next to him. Covered with mud as both were, disillusion charms were almost unneeded in the dimming light of dusk. The Polish Witch quickly started to work on the wards while he kept an eye out for threats. Halfway through by his estimate, he spotted a wizard coming their way - in robes. He sent a piercing curse at the man, driving him into cover, then cast a light spell right over the enemy position before shielding himself. As expected several small grenades landed where he had indicated, and a scream told him they had hit their mark.

“Almost done,” Ada mumbled, sounding strained.

Makary knew more were doing the same, all around him. Or hoped. Another broom rider crashed down, right in the middle of the enemy camp.

“Done!” Ada stated just as Makary felt the ward go down. He grabbed her and pulled her up - they had to leave, right now.

They ran, together with a dozen other wizards. Makary expected a spell to hit him in the back every second, but very few spells were cast at them - only two of the ward breakers or their escorts were hit before the group was under cover, in a hopefully safe enough distance. Makary had just cast a Bubblehead Charm and a Shield Charm when he spotted a large object falling towards the camp. A second later hell was unleashed on the Russians when the Thermobaric Weapon the British had provided exploded.

*****

Vladimir’s entire group jerked to a stop when they heard and felt the detonation behind them.

“I guess that was it for the War Wizards,” Konstantin whispered.

“Bastards” Klava added.

Sasha nodded. “If anyone asks we were about to flank the enemy when they destroyed the camp.”

*****


	25. Mired

**Chapter 25: Mired**

Ron Weasley asked himself if heading home to Britain while he recovered from his wounds had been as smart a decision as he had thought. He and the other British soldiers that had fought in Berlin had been granted two weeks’ leave, more for those who were wounded. While many had taken a portkey back to Britain, a number had decided to stay in Berlin - the Alte Strasse may have been a mix of rubble and burned-out ruins after the battle, but the muggle city was untouched, after all - or visit Paris. They were without a doubt enjoying the bars and clubs, and were not confined to bed by an overprotective mum. No wonder Ginny had decided to stay in Poland! The reason that she was ‘keeping an idiot company who is too stubborn to head home and cannot be left alone or he does something stupid’ had sounded fake to him. His little sister had known how mum would be, with her two youngest wounded in war.

To be honest, he didn’t really mind his mum that much. It was nice to be mothered when his body was still hurting and he had to rest a lot, and nothing beat her meals. It was just the principle of the thing. And seeing George pranking him… Merlin, to see him act normal again! Ron had almost forgotten to act outraged enough to not spoil the whole prank! Percy’s visits too were a boon - his older brother kept him informed of the state of the war, and of the Ministry. Charlie had visited once, but returned to his dragon soon enough. His father had showed him the latest prototype he was working on, looking happier than ever.

And there was Bill, the brother sort of responsible for the current bane of Ron’s existence. The blonde menace who was right now sitting at his bedside. Gabrielle Delacour. He glanced over from the book he was pretending to read to the teenage Veela. She didn’t actually do much, other than ‘keeping zhe wounded ‘ero company’ as she put it. But when he caught her looking at him, he couldn’t help but shiver. She had a really predatory look in her eyes. Not an expression a 14-year-old girl should have when looking at a grown man, a veteran soldier! And sometimes, when he looked at her… he had asked Bill if the ‘Veela aura’ was really a myth. Twice. Which had gotten him a lecture from Bill, and Gabrielle a talking to from Fleur. Not that he had understood anything the two had said to each other, despite the rising volume. He should really learn French. Or not - Gabrielle would volunteer to teach him. And get ideas. And she might get her and his parents to go along with it since that ‘would give her something to do, to help her get over her ordeal”’. That’s what they said when they explained why she would be keeping him company while he rested, after all.

Gabrielle noticed his look, and smiled at him, showing perfect teeth. Ron weakly smiled back and thought of something to say that wouldn’t cause trouble for him. He was saved by the arrival of two unexpected guests: Harry and Hermione. If they were surprised by the enthusiasm he greeted them with they didn’t show it. Though Harry had that knowing grin on his face when Gabrielle curtsied to him. The git probably thought having a kid having a crush on you was funny. Well, it was - when it happened to someone else. And when the kid’s big sister couldn’t throw fireballs if she was angry. At least Harry waited until Gabrielle had left before laughing… and Hermione was giggling? Ron scowled at both.

“Sorry, Ron, it’s just too funny.” Harry didn’t sound sorry at all. Amused rather.

“Yeah… so, how are things at the office? Any news from the Russians?” Ron changed the topic.

Harry sighed, and Hermione frowned, the levity suddenly gone.

“They are throwing everything they can spare at Poland. Or that’s what they want us to believe. We’re holding the line, but we already started to send the British troops in Prussia to Poland. The Prussians can’t spare any yet, but the new Polish government might not want them there anyway, despite those Prussians crushing Grindelwald’s followers,” Harry said.

Hermione shrugged. “The Prussians are seen as Grindelwald’s forces in most of Eastern Europe. Even their muggleborns have some reservations, but that’s because of the Second World War. We can expect more help from the French soon though, and I’d think in the end, muggleborn Prussians will be more welcome than Russian War Wizards.”

“In the meantime, people are dying in numbers we haven’t seen since Grindelwald. While we have noticed a higher rate of entire units retreating, many of the Russians fight to the bitter end. So do many Polish wizards.” Harry shook his head at that.

“I guess the standard War Wizard turtle tactics make retreating difficult,” Ron mused.

“We do have heard rumors of unrest within the Russian ranks. Many of the muggleborn and half-blood wizards and witches are said to be unhappy with the current war and leadership by the exclusively pureblood War Wizards,” Hermione said.

Ron nodded at her. “Would I be wrong if I assume that the muggleborn and half-blood wizards and witches are retreating more quickly?”

“You would not be wrong. If they revolt it would take Russia out of the war. But we’d have a civil war in Russia instead, and the Russian muggleborn would certainly ask for our help. Everyone else did too. Sometimes I think this war will never end. And yet, we haven’t even fought for a fraction of the years Grindelwald was at it.” Hermione frowned again.

“And he was stopped in Russia. So, are you staying for dinner?” Ron knew no one would mention the Revolution, or the Tribunals while they were here, but it was still a touchy subject, and hard to avoid completely with the war that was spawned by the Revolution affecting so much of their lives.

“We’d love to.” Harry grinned, promising more teasing at the dinner table.

Ron smiled. It was another step towards restoring the extended family he was used to and wanted. Gabrielle was already sitting next to his usual seat, smiling happily. Maybe the family shouldn’t be too extended.

*****

Vladimir Petrovich Volodin was tired, covered in mud, and hungry. Like he had been for weeks, or so it felt like. His small group had been moved from camp to camp and from field to field, ordered around by commanders trying to plug holes left by the desertions and retreats of others. Not that it helped much. Vladimir and his friends were barely fighting, and always looking for a way out. Sasha, their half-blood leader, was good at keeping up appearances. That was why they were not using Scourgify to clean themselves up until it was time to sleep - that way any of the prissy purebloods looking for some cannon fodder were more likely to dismiss them as too exhausted from fighting to be sent out again. Even Konstantin had understood that, despite his craving for clean robes and clean skin. And Klava… she could act so well, it fooled most who didn’t know the little minx well enough.

Earlier today, a War Wizard had come around, looking for some poor mudbloods to order into battle. Sasha had gotten everyone to stand in line and looking ragged but determined. And Klava had been swaying on her feet, a dirty reddish cloth wound around her left thigh, robes ripped to show it, her face showing just how much she hurt and how much she didn’t want to show it. The War Wizard, in his perfectly clean robes, had taken a look at the straggling group, even returned Sasha’s bow when she rattled down their names, mentioning how they had lost 6 of the original 10 witches and wizards but were still effective, and waved them off ‘to get some rest’ while he went on to search for for some fools who looked less eager, and less dead on their feet. They had waited until they were in their secure tent before laughing like hyenas at the dumb pureblood.

Two bottles of vodka had been passed around - Vladimir couldn’t stand the magical stuff purebloods drank - and talk had turned to more serious, more treasonous matters again. Like every evening, lately.

“Why are we fighting anyway? What did the Polish wizards ever do to us? Or the British?” Konstantin whined. He was painstakingly clean again. Klava had joked he had to have burned out his wand with so many cleaning charms.

“We’re keeping the hordes of Grindelwald from massacring our families,” Vladimir answered, with a fake nasal accent to imitate a caricature of a pureblood.

Sasha, a bit too much into her cups again, scoffed. “Hah! The British killed all of Grindelwald’s scum in Berlin. Burned down the entire magic quarter to get at them, and then used Fiendfyre on the ones who tried to escape! We’re not fighting for our families, we’re fighting for the pureblood parasites!”

Vladimir cast another Silencing Spell on the tent, just to be safe, while Klava nodded. “It’s stupid. We’re fighting British and Polish wizards. Those countries fought Grindelwald in the last war. And why are we fighting them? Because the British killed off their pureblood rapists, and our purebloods took offense.”

“Our pureblood rapists you mean,” Sasha added, sounding even more grim than usual. Vladimir was getting concerned about her - she usually held her liquor better.

“Damn right. We bleed and die so they can plunder the Polish villages and bedrooms!” Klava drank deeply from her own cup.

“We do their dirty work so they can do their dirty deeds.” Konstantin laughed at his feeble wordplay, as did the others, helped along by lots of vodka.

“We work and they reap the fruits of our labor. That sounds familiar.” Vladimir once again realized only afterwards that he had spoken out loud.

“Very familiar!” Konstantin grinned, then turned a bedsheet left by a fallen comrade - Grisha, maybe - red. Another flick of his wand had it floating in the air like a flag. “Мир, Хлеб , Земля!”

“Всю Власть Советам!” Klava shouted. Vladimir and Sasha joined in, and raised their cups.

“Мир Народам, Хлеб Голодным , Землю крестьянам, Всю Власть Советам!” was shouted from four throats in the tent. The famous slogan of the Russian Revolution - Peace to the nations, bread to the hungry, land to the peasants, all power to the soviets! - was followed by an inspired, if very drunk rendition of the ‘Internationale’, the even more famous anthem.

The next morning none of them could remember who had planted a red flag in the middle of the camp. Neither could the War Wizards find out. But in the following night, someone replaced it - and Vladimir knew it hadn’t been any member of his group.

*****

“You can’t stay here, Neville! You need to return to Britain so they can fix your leg!” Ginny was fuming while staring at her friend. He stared back.

“I don’t need a working leg to fly on a broom. A sticking charm will keep me astride. I can still fight.”

“And what if we crash again? You can’t run. You can’t even walk without two crutches!”

“I can apparate. Or portkey. Or carry a spare broom. Or two.”

Ginny cursed under her breath. They had been over this a dozen times, or so it felt. Neville was simply too stubborn for his own good. Or too afraid his grandmother would make him leave the army. She didn’t say that though - some topics neither of them touched. Not even in anger. “What if they can’t fix it if you wait too long? And don’t say you’ll cut it off and grow a new one!”

“Then I’ll get a peg leg. Moody had one.”

“And you’ll get a peg head too? You pigheaded idiot!”

Ginny threw the fruits she had brought at him and stormed out of the room. She almost ran into the Polish local commander, Makary Bercik.

“Oh, I am sorry sir… I didn’t look where I was going,” she managed to get out, blushing in embarrassment.

He chuckled. “No problem, Miss, I mean, Corporal.”

Ginny stood at attention, as she had been drilled to. Even though the Polish forces didn’t follow muggle soldier customs, he still was a superior officer. Better safe than sorry anyway. And it reminded him that she was a soldier first, girl second - the Polish wizards sometimes had trouble understanding that, the rumors about their gallantry were not unfounded. Ginny didn’t usually mind the attention, it was flattering, but there were times and places for innocent flirting. Like when and where Neville could see it. And of course not in the field.

“How is your friend?”

“Stupid! I mean, his leg remains not working. It’s not hurt, all seems healthy, it’s simply not working. They haven’t found the curse that did it yet.”

“I see. Will he be transferred to Britain soon?”

“That’s what he is stupid about! He wants to stay here and fight, stuck to a broom since he can’t walk!” Ginny couldn’t help but scowl and pout.

“Admirable.”

Was that a hint of amusement in his voice? What did he found funny about Neville’s condition? He must have noticed her sudden glare, since he coughed, and excused himself to visit a wounded comrade of his.

Ginny scoffed. Men! Stupid Neville! She didn’t want to return to Britain either, but she had a good reason - her mum would never let her leave again after she had been wounded!

*****

Viktor Krum was looking down on Sofia, his country’s capital. He was sitting on his best broom, disillusioned, and studying the magical quarter hidden from muggle eyes by countless charms and wards layered over each other. There was the Ministry, with two stone lamias guarding it. Legend had it that those were actual lamias, turned to stone by the founder of the Ministry, and spelled to wake and defend it in times of need. He hoped that this was just a myth - things could get ugly if it was not.

His revolutionaries had reached the capital, with everyone opposing them fleeing after at most token resistance. Enough to preserve their personal honor, not enough to invite retribution. Everyone understood the rules.

But the Ministry would be different. They had too much to lose and his people had too many grievances piled up. The Minister had been a bit too greedy, and a bit too accommodating to the wishes of his Russian ‘allies’. His people remembered. Viktor did too. Especially the feelings the Bulgarian Veela had on the matter. He didn’t think there would be much need for a tribunal, after the Ministry would have fallen. Everyone understood the situation.

He banked left and dove down, landing next to his officers. Lieutenant Baker, for a change without his fiancée clinging to his arm as if to make sure he’d not come to his senses and flee, was waiting, as were the other three British soldiers and most of the local leaders. Thankfully, his own family was busy preparing the wedding of his cousin, so he didn’t need to have Baker - James now, he reminded himself - discreetly guarded from the man’s more volatile future in-laws. He’d have to thank his mother in private for that.

“I didn’t see anyone on the street, and from what we hear from our local sources, there are no enemies hidden in the houses next to the Ministry either. Everything points to them being holed up in the building. The lamias are not moving so far,” Viktor said. Laughter, though some of it nervous, answered him.

“It could be a trap. Like in France,” Lieutenant Baker spoke up.

“We’ll be careful. And we’ll not come through the doors.” Viktor looked at the two British soldiers with the weird muggle contraptions. Hermione had assured him they would blow straight through stone. “Rally the men, we’ll strike now!”

Viktor led the flight to the Ministry’s roof in person, despite the British trying to make him stay back. He was the leader, it was his responsibility. He’d not hide when others fought for him. No one was on the roof, the Minister and his remaining guards must be trusting their wards to keep Viktor’s people away. It would have worked, if not for the ward breakers he had brought, hired for this task from Gringotts, and the information a deserter who had worked in maintenance at the Ministry had given them.

While he waited for them to finish their work, Viktor wondered if that was how Hermione and Harry had felt, getting ready to storm their Ministry. Or had it happened too quickly, too spontaneously for them to worry and think much about it? Next to him, wizards, witches, and British soldiers were eyeing the edges of the roof, and the roof itself as if it could swallow them any time, or spit enemies at them. One was keeping an eye on the stone lamias. Just in case.

Finally the ward breakers, looking exhausted, had removed the wards protecting the roof, and the British positioned their ‘shaped charges’. Once everyone was behind a dozen Shield Charms, the charges were detonated. The force of the explosion, blowing holes through thick stone, shook everyone but the British. That had been terrifying - hopefully for their enemies as well. Viktor led the men to the holes. They had to strike fast before the defenders rallied. Behind him, one of the muggleborn shouted “Na nozh!” The cry was taken up by more muggleborns, even some purebloods, as the jumped down the holes, Cushioning Charms breaking their fall.

Viktor was in the lead, trying not to think about the remains he was running over - the shaped charge had turned the entire room beneath it into an inferno. Some fires were still licking at the doors, and Viktor shouted for one to extinguish them while blowing said doors open. A dazzled looking Ministry guard was reeling from the shock, and Viktor followed up with a Bludgeoning Curse right to the man’s chest. The wizard was struggling to get up when one of the rebels jumped at him, shouting “Na nozh!”, and cast a Cutting Curse straight into his throat. To the knife, indeed.

He led his witches and wizards through the corridors of the Ministry, clearing room after room. Some of their enemies were smart enough to surrender - or not so smart, depending on their past. Others fought, isolated and futilely, until they were cut down. Organized resistance wasn’t encountered until they reached the Minister’s office. Viktor knew the place. He had received a medal here, for his deeds at the World Cup and in the Triwizard Tournament, from the very man he would now be killing, or helping to kill. It didn’t faze him - the man had started the war, after all, when he had sent Aurors after him. He was now reaping the results of his folly.

The Minister and his guards were prepared. They were brave too, ready to sell their lives dearly. It didn’t help them. An rpg blew the door away, taking at least one defender down judging by the screams, then hand grenades followed, before the first attacker stormed in. Two of the attackers went down, struck by curses, but the defenders were overwhelmed, sometimes in melee.

“Na nozh!”

Viktor saw the Minister fall, a Cutting Curse to the throat, and their eyes met. Viktor didn’t look away until the man had bled out. He thought the man understood.

The Russians in the building had made their last stand near the defunct Floo Connection, and taken more attackers with them. None of them had been taken alive - or so Viktor was told. He didn’t question it.

He left the building through the untouched front doors, greeted by the shouts of the crowd that had gathered there. He didn’t remember what he said, only that it was patriotic, and well-received, before the crowd stormed inside the building, looking to settle old grievances with those defenders who were still alive. Viktor, for a fleeting moment alone in the crowd, leaned against the right stone lamia, a tired smile on his face. On an impulse he patted the statue - and felt not stone, but moving scales under his hand. Then there was but stone again. And he understood.

*****

Tsar Cyril Dmitrovich Romanov was wearing his ‘field robes’, not the formal robes of the ruler of Magical Russia, when he met his advisors and commanders. He was here as the leader of a nation at war, so it was only proper to look the part. Descended from a side branch of the Imperial Family, split off even before the main line ended with Peter II of Russia, his family had ruled Magical Russia ever since the Statute of Secrecy had went into effect. It wasn’t the first time his dynasty was in danger, but it was the first time the entire way of life of Magical Russia was endangered.

As had been common lately, the Tsar wondered again what he could have done differently when the British purebloods were lost. To accept it would mean to leave such a crime unpunished, inviting more mudbloods to raise their wands against their rulers. He had just to look at the nations that had fallen to the rabble since the war had started to know this was true. And yet, the attack on the British had caused the very war that was threatening to undo all the gains magical Russia had made since and despite Grindelwald. Had undone most of them already, if he was honest. But what wizards would they be, if they had stayed their wands when such a noble cause had needed them? Never since Grindelwald had Magical Europe been in such danger, and once again the cause were the mudbloods, rabble roused to defy the natural order.

He let his thoughts wander while he received the greetings of the men and women forming his council - the most trusted commanders of the Imperial Guard and the War Wizards, his closest advisors, and his heir, Alexander Cyrilovich. If only his older brother had lived…

He shook those dark thoughts off and formally addressed the council. “Be welcome, members of my Council, and advise me freely and without fear.” Not that they would, of course - to enrage the Tsar was courting danger. “How goes the war?”

He listened to the reports. Reports his spymaster had already given to him. And yet he paid attention - if there were any discrepancies between the reports from his spymaster and those he received directly, then something would be amiss, treason afoot. He found no hints of treason, only of fear. Well hidden, but in every report.

“So, our troops fight bravely, but can only hold the line, unable to push the aggressors back?” No one corrected him. “A war cannot be won like this! What can we do to win, not just to hold out? Answer me!”

His council exchanged glances. Anxious men and women, the lot of them. He glared, until Gerasim Alexandrovich Yenin, the commander of the north western front, spoke up. “Your Imperial Highness, the British use muggle weapons extensively and effectively. If we are to beat them, we need to do the same.”

He was about to expand on that and explain his reasons in more detail, but the Tsar cut him off. “And who would use those weapons? Mudbloods? Muggles even? Do you propose to arm those same mudbloods that run from the shadow of danger even now, and whose traitorous brethren in France have already turned on their ruler, murdering him in his home? Is that your plan? Or would you have noble wizards stoop to use muggle tools, like animals?” He scoffed at the now pale man. “The day we need muggle weapons to win is the day we lost this war, for we would have sunk to the levels of our foes. We will rather die with our wands in hand than pick up such barbaric weapons.”

No one dared to object.

Rodion Stanislavovich Klimov, the head of the Russian Academy for the Magical Arts, the best researchers in his realm, was the next to show some spine and voice a proposal. “Your Imperial Highness is correct. In order to beat the mudblood-loving enemies we need not sink to their level, but delve deeper into the dark arts. Inferi, Your Imperial Highness, are the answer. Muggle weapons cannot hurt them effectively. An army of them will see our victory. Divide them into small groups and send them behind the enemy lines, force the enemy to spread their forces out to defend their homes and families, so we can concentrate our forces and overwhelm them piece by piece, group by group!”

The Tsar shook his head. “A bold proposal, Rodion, but they share their homes with muggles. What of the Statute of Secrecy? Would you risk the wrath of the ICW in our current situation, by having Inferi roam the muggle cities?”

He shook his head, but didn’t glare. The man meant well, but had no sense for politics. He only saw what could be done, never what shouldn’t be done. And judging by some of the more secret reports, the muggle had weapons that could deal with inferi.

Nina Ilyina spoke up, surprising the Tsar. The young female commander from the War Wizards usually left the more senior War Wizards speak. “Your Imperial Highness, the idea is sound, but the means are not. If we split up our forces, send them out to strike at the enemy’s homes, we force them to cover so much ground they cannot hold the line, much less advance. Concentrated we are vulnerable, divided we are far harder to hit while we can hit where we please. And the Statute of Secrecy will not be endangered.”

Her proposal had merit, but was not that sound either. “And what if they push through, and do the same to us? We would end up massacring each other’s families, for no gain.” Again, his spymaster had had the answers.

He addressed his Council, speaking confidently: “What we need is time. Time to rally and unite our forces. Time to get rid of the rot that undermines our nation, so we stand tall and strong again. I will send envoys to the British to ask for an armistice, so we will have that time.”

The council broke out in whispers. A glare from him silenced them again.

“The enemy is weary of this war. Unlike us, they have not the stomach to endure such hardship, nor such losses. Already they need muggles in order to not collapse. They will agree to an armistice, maybe even divide their allies over it. We will start to negotiate a peace treaty. And during those negotiations we will prepare a blow the enemy won’t see coming, and from which he will not recover.”

Most were smiling now. A few frowned at the duplicity they saw - which pleased the Tsar. Such wizards and witches wouldn’t be quick to commit treachery themselves.

His spymaster was correct. They couldn’t win this war by the strength of their wands, not against such a dishonorable foe. They needed to use cunning, guile, and treachery to win. It wouldn’t be glorious, nor honorable. But history was written by the victor.

He looked at his heir. The Tsarevich smiled. He of course understood perfectly what was needed, and what would happen. That didn’t please the Tsar, but there was nothing he could do. Not anymore.

*****


	26. Red Storm Rising

**Chapter 26: Red Storm Rising**

“An armistice proposal?” Harry Potter sounded incredulous. The Russians actually asked for an armistice? The nation whose War Wizards usually fought to the death? He couldn’t believe it.

“Yes. I’ve told you so twice now. The Tsar is asking for an armistice so we can enter peace negotiations. The Swiss have been passing on his message.” Hermione pointed at a scroll on her desk.

“Wow. He must be really desperate.”

“That’s the opinion of Ron as well.”

“Do you think he is honest?”

Hermione nibbled on her lower lip. “It is possible, but I don’t think so. We have read the reports of entire Russian units withdrawing quickly when confronted. Maybe he simply wants to buy time to deal with the unrest in his country.”

“We could use some time too, to let our forces rest and recuperate. And let our new allies recover as well.” Harry didn’t have to say that he thought the war with Russia would continue sooner or later, regardless if there was an armistice or even a peace treaty. Neither he nor Hermione believed that an autocratic pureblood ruler like the Tsar would ever accept the losses his Empire had taken in the war, nor tolerate ‘mudbloods’ in power near his borders.

“Who would profit more from such an armistice, us or them?” Hermione asked.

“That’s hard to say. We don’t really know how bad the situation in Russia is. We don’t really need a break though. We can keep fighting, keep the pressure on the Russians while more and more of their allies and troops desert them.” Harry didn’t like it - it would cause more losses on their side, with tired troops making mistakes - but it made sense to fight on if the Russians were in a worse shape.

“There are also political concerns. The Prime Minister has been making comments about British soldiers being too close to Russian soil for a while. I think he fears an escalation that drags muggle Russia into the war,” Hermione stated ticking off points on her fingers. “And there is only so much you can do to hide the fact that a growing number of soldiers is missing, or dead. With recent losses, and no big victories, public opinion is slowly growing tired of a war in a country most do not know. That Poland nominally was an enemy until recently isn’t helping either. And the peace treaties with the other German magical nations were very well received. Better, according to Luna, than the alliance with Magical Prussia against Magical Russia.”

“Have the Prussians and the French already said their piece?”

“They need more time to consider this. Personally, I think either country could need peace, but both seem to carry grudges. We’ve been fighting British, French, German and Russian purebloods already. Bulgarians too, if you count the advisors we sent to Viktor.”

Harry scowled when Hermione mentioned Krum.

The witch seemed to ignore it and continued: “But the French and Prussian muggleborns may still want to fight purebloods more than they want peace. And the Polish government… I do not think they would want to stop at their borders, once we push the Russians out, but would prefer to go and burn Magical Moscow.”

“There’s also the possibility of an uprising in Russia. If that happens, we would have to either break the armistice, or abandon muggleborns asking for help.”

“We can always find an excuse to break an armistice, but it would hurt us politically if we’re seen to be giving up ‘the good fight’, as some call it.” Hermione sighed. “But if we ignore the offer then we might drive them, and others, to fight to the bitter end. We’re already the bogart of the purebloods in Europe for executing a bunch of mass murderers. Currently a number of nations are hastily preparing reforms to placate their muggleborns and us. If they get the impression that we don’t care for peace at all, we might drive them to desperate actions.”

“I’d say we keep fighting. We’d just have to fight again at a later date anyway, and who knows in what kind of situation we will be then?” Harry really prefered to settle things as soon as possible, when it came to fighting.

“I would agree, provided we can blame the Russians for the failure of agreeing on an armistice and that our allies do not object. We can’t fight this war alone, after all, and they are closer to Russia’s borders than we are.”

Harry closed his eyes, sighing. “War by committee. I’m certain Ron warned us of that.”

“He was more focused on the effects on strategy than diplomacy, but he’d agree.”

“How is he doing anyway? Still at the Burrow?” Harry had to grin at the thought of Ron stuck there, left to the tender mercies of his mum and Gabrielle Delacour.

“Last I heard he is planning to make his escape as soon as his leave is ending.” Hermione too was grinning.

“Two galleons say Gabrielle foils his first attempt.”

“You’re on.”

*****

Tsar Cyril Dmitrovich Romanov stood alone in his office, his gaze wandering over the paintings of his ancestors, wondering if he was doing the right thing. The counsel of the portraits showed no consensus. The portrait of his father didn’t like the deception he planned, but supported his decision. It was no surprise - his father had fought against Grindelwald’s butchers, and knew what it took to defeat such enemies. His great-grandfather’s painting disagreed. A Romanov’s word was his bond, it had stated, and it was better to die than lose one’s honor. As much as Cyril liked to agree, he couldn’t. Things were not as simple as they had been in his great-grandfather’s time. The enemies had changed, and the Romanovs would have to change too, to survive. He frowned when he spotted the small portrait next to the violin stand. It was empty. Princess Anna Karina’s portrait had left, days ago, presumably moving to another painting. She had warned him that he was trying to fight history itself, and would only lose as history repeated itself. He would have scoffed at the warning, if not for the fact that Anna Karina had been the last seer in the Imperial Family. And yet, it wasn’t the voice of a seer, but of a portrait he was ignoring - a pale shadow of a real witch. He told himself that, and tried to forget that there was a reason this portrait was hanging in this office, next to those of the unbroken line of Tsars.

He lifted the heavy goblet he held in his left hand, and sipped from the burning, charmed liquid, closing his eyes while the enchanted drink filled his stomach with warmth. He knew he was not acting with honor, asking for an armistice, offering peace negotiations, while planning to double-cross his enemies, but he felt he had no choice. Besides, he was facing mudbloods, not wizards and witches of honor. Cunning, cruel mudbloods who were attacking not just his country, or his family, but the very foundation of his rule, the natural order of pure, noble blood ruling over lesser blood. Contrary to many of the portraits, he understood that this was not a normal war, not a conflict between civilized Wizards, but an attack by murdering barbarian hordes on the last stronghold of civilization in Magical Europe. France had fallen. Prussia, already dying from the poison Grindelwald had left, had fallen. Poland had fallen. Bulgaria had fallen. The lesser German nations had surrendered to the horde. Romania would be falling - without Russians to strengthen their backs their rulers would bend to the demands of the Vampires and Veela, those dark creatures infesting that country and polluting so many of the Romanian purebloods. Hungary and Austria… he scoffed at the thought. They were chasing the dream of a restored Empire again, but would fail, tearing each other apart in a struggle for power over the rotten remains of what had been a great nation before Grindelwald. The Scandinavians never were civilized, or had lost whatever progress they had made when the Statute of Secrecy went into effect, and they turned back to their Viking roots and customs, trying to resurrect traditions long since faded. Neither they nor the nations of Southern Europe mattered.

No, Russia was all that was left, facing the enemy from the west, once again. In his father’s day, sheer courage and sacrifice had won the war, at great cost. Russia couldn’t afford a similar sacrifice, not anymore. Not after the disastrous invasion. No, cunning and guile had to prevail. Once the armistice was declared, he’d send his best wizards out, disguised as muggles, using muggle means of travel, into the heart of the enemy nations. They’d live as muggles, pose as harmless animals, until Russia was ready. Then they would strike. Not against the enemy’s strongholds, but at their weak, vulnerable population.

The Tsar had studied his worst enemy carefully. Britain had been brought to the brink of defeat once by a mere half-blood and a few dozen followers, then it had fallen to the same half-blood not even two decades later. That had not been a war, but a campaign of terror. And what pampered British fools following a half-blood could do, hardened Russian War Wizards could surpass. Using the same tactics, but improving on them, they would throw Britain and the other nations into chaos. While mudblood family after mudblood family was killed they would panic, falter and abandon each other, each trying to save their own country. That would leave them open to a strong, decisive attack, which would smash their nations one after the other before they could unite their forces or mend their broken trusts.

The Tsar put the goblet, inside which the charmed flames were flickering out, consuming the last of the liquid, down on his desk. It was not honorable. He knew that. But if he had to sacrifice his honor or his country, then he’d sacrifice his honor. He didn’t look at the portrait of his great-grandfather as he left his office, searching for his spymaster.

*****

Vladimir Petrovich Volodin stood in line with the rest of his group and dozens of other wizards, waiting for their next commander to arrive and give them their new orders. They didn’t even know the name of their commander yet - probably another pureblood not good enough for the War Wizards. Which would be replaced by a real War Wizard once he had messed up his command enough. He glanced around, spotting crumpled robes and mulish expressions. No one was making an effort here. Apart from the ones making sure a red flag was raised each night, no matter how often the few War Wizards in the camp took it down each morning. Not that he cared, all he cared about was his group of friends. Konstantin, Klava, and Sasha, their leader. They had been through so much by now, they were more than friends, they were family. Even living in a muddy camp in the middle of nowhere, with the threat of some broom rider dropping a bomb on them in the middle of the night, was tolerable as long as he was with his friends, and Sasha.

Movement near the commander’s tent caught his attention, and he stood straighter. It wouldn’t do to be made an example for the rest, some commanders did that to the worst looking wizard they spotted when inspecting their new command. There, a young man in a gaudy robe, charmed with so many spells to keep the mud off it was almost bending the light around it, had stepped out. From the way he and his his aide laughed at the puddle of mud the aide had quickly turned to stone, the fool had likely made some joke about mudbloods and mud. Many pureblood officers did that. Some didn’t even care if their muggleborn wizards overheard them or not. As a Russian muggleborn, facing such scorn was part of one’s life. Something one had to endure, just as one endured rain, mud, and scorching heat and dust in the summer, just without spells to help with that. Unless one counted Cutting and Piercing Curses, as the latest joke making the rounds among the muggleborns went. Vladimir schooled his features before his mirth might show. He missed the sudden gasp from Sasha.

There the officer came, walking the line, glaring at each of the wizards and witches as if it was their fault he had been sent out to the frontlines. Business as usual, Vladimir thought, until he noticed how tense Sasha war. The half-blood witch was trembling even, and her jaws were clenched together so hard, he almost could hear the teeth grinding against each other. What was going on? She hadn’t been as tense when they had been facing a British Strike Team a week ago!

The officer suddenly lengthened his stride, passing the next group without even glancing at them, and stepped right up to Vladimir and his friends. No, to Sasha, Vladimir realised. The man’s face had lit up in a wide smile, and his eyes shone with glee.

“Ah… Alexandra Irinovna Glebova. If I had known you would be under my command, I would have arrived far faster in this Baba Yaga-forsaken camp.”

Sasha stood ramrod straight, teeth clenched, muscles twitching as she stared, no, glared past the pureblood. The officer - Vladimir still hadn’t heard his name - grinned, and reached out to grip her chin, lifting it up, then turning her head left and right.

“I do hope you have kept yourself clean, Sasha. Although I guess I can always cast a few Scourgifies. Probably should anyway. Who knows how dirty you got since you left the academy.” He leaned forward, his lips almost touching Sasha’s ear, and spoke in whisper Vladimir barely heard despite him standing right next to Sasha. “This time there’s no sentimental fool around who can transfer you away from me.”

This was the man that had caused Sasha to end up in his group, Vladimir realised. He was clenching his teeth too, filled with rage, with the urge to lash out and hex that pureblood’s smile from his face.

The officer, uncaring about the glares he was receiving, turned to his aide without releasing Sasha’s face, and said: “Make sure she’s in my tent and ready, Alexei Evgenyvich, by the time I finish inspecting this sorry lot.”

He turned back to Sasha, still gripping her chin. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could get a word out he caught her Reductor Curse right between his legs that all but ripped him apart.

For a second, everyone was stunned. The officer was falling to the ground, with a horrified expression on his face. Sasha was standing there as if frozen, her wand out, her entire front and face splattered with the man’s blood. The aide was staring, shocked, like everyone else. Then a voice shouted “Мир, Хлеб , Земля!”. Dozens took up the shout. Vladimir shouted “Всю Власть Советам!” right before he killed the aide with a Piercing Curse to the head.

Next to him, Klava and Konstantin were casting Shield Charms. Sasha blinked, then crouched down and cast one herself. “Bombarda in the middle of the War Wizards, before they can link shields! On my mark - now!” Four Bombardas hit the ground the War Wizards were standing on, and disrupted what formation they might have tried to form, with half of them still lined up for inspection. Dozens of spells started to rain down on them now, as muggleborns vented their anger and avenged years, decades of humiliation. Even War Wizards could not withstand such an onslaught, not if caught mostly unaware. Even before the last of them fell a red flag had been conjured and floated above the camp.

After a loud celebration, the camp suddenly grew more quiet as the wizards and witches realized what they had done. They had killed their commander and the resident War Wizards. Desertion was bad enough, but this? Vladimir started to panic when a loud voice cut through the murmuring and exclamations. Sasha.

“Comrades! Comrades! Listen!”

She climbed upon the small pedestal that had been prepared for the commander’s speech. She had their attention, men and women who had been close to panic turning to the lone voice giving orders.

“We have struck a first blow against the corrupt regime, but more need to follow if we want to achieve freedom and justice for us and our families! Be not afraid, comrades, be strong! The British defeated their pureblood oppressors! The French and Prussians did the same! Poland followed! Can we do less? Our grandparents toppled the muggle Tsar, without magic! Can we do less? We have fought and bled for purebloods, now we will fight and bleed for ourselves and our families!”

Covered with blood, Sasha was a sight to see. Even Vladimir, who knew her so well - though not as well as he would have liked - was caught up when she started the revolutionary slogans again, and with dozens of others, with everyone still alive in the camp, he joined in.

“Мир Народам, Хлеб Голодным , Землю крестьянам, Всю Власть Советам!”

*****

If Viktor Krum had thought his troubles would be over once he had defeated the remnants of the Ministry that had tried to get him arrested, he would have been mistaken. He hadn’t, though. Expected that his troubles would be over, that is. He was no fool. But he had hoped that they would at least lessen. Some.

But that was not the case either. They had made him Minister. He had expected that, to be honest. He’d not serve long, of course, just long enough for some elections to be held so he could be replaced. He had written to Hermione for some advice, but she had informed him that the British were still preparing the first democratic elections in Wizarding Britain. Apparently, introducing democracy took some time and effort, if one wanted to do it right. Or perfectly, in Hermione’s case. Fortunately, he didn’t have to do that. All he had to do was calling for the National Council to convene, and the heads of families would gather and decide on the next Minister. Though given the developments in the rest of Europe, it might be prudent to ensure muggleborns were represented in the Council too. Though since their families were so small - if they even had a family - they couldn’t be counted as head of families, could they? It wouldn’t be fair if the vote of the Head of the Balev family, which represented over a hundred Balevs, would count as much as the vote from the head of a muggleborn family who represented himself and his wife, after all. Maybe the muggleborns could gather beforehand, and vote on their representatives for the Council? Maybe he should give that some more thought. Or foist it off on someone with more experience.

He looked at his desk. Most of the paperwork of his predecessor had been destroyed during the attack on this office, but since then it seemed as if everyone had made an extra effort to replace it, and parchments were piling up on his desk. Some reports from Bulgaria’s Veela colonies. They were in contact with the Romanian Veela, and served as a diplomatic channel between two countries that were not certain if they were at war or not, after Viktor had been declared an ally of Britain and had taken over Bulgaria. Apparently, their northern neighbour, already under a lot of pressure from their influential vampire clans and Veela colonies, who had both been quite taken with the British reforms with regards to creature rights, had withdrawn from the war as soon as the Russian wizards had left the country, and was now wishing for a normalisation of their relations. Viktor was only too happy to agree - it would let the Romanians focus on their border with Russia, and he and his wizards and witches could focus on the border with the Magical Ottoman Empire. They had to ensure the Turks would not try to use the civil war to raid the border for slaves for their janissaries and harems. Officially, the Ottoman Empire had outlawed such raids, but that did not really deter the slavers and the corrupt officials who should control them. Maybe he should remind the Sultan of his close friendship with Hermione and Harry. The ruler of the Magical Ottoman Empire, or rather, whoever in his harem was pulling his strings, was certainly smart enough not to risk war over the profits of a few of his officials.

Viktor pondered this. He didn’t want to imply anything, or even threaten anyone directly, with Britain’s involvement. Hermione had hated it when he tried to order for her at the ball. She’d take him trying to drag her into a possible war even worse. But… maybe he could use his biggest problem, Stefka’s wedding. Showing publicly that his cousin was marrying a British officer should make anyone on their southern border pause and reexamine their priorities. Maybe if he made the wedding appear to be a way to save Bulgarians from slaving Turks his more, ah, disapproving relatives might be won over. Enough at least not to try and hex the groom. No one had forgotten the fate of his great-aunt Radka. Though everyone had learned not to ask what had happened when his Great-uncle Ognian had gone to ransom her back, only to return without her.

Viktor suddenly perked up. If he considered the wedding as a vital event for the security of Bulgarian’s population, then he could foist the planning off to one of his underlings. Let them deal with his aunt and mother!

Smiling happily, he wrote a note to that effect. A flick of his wand sent the note on its way as if it was a miniature flying carpet. His biggest problem dealt with, he turned to his lesser problems.

*****

Neville Longbottom hadn’t really feared returning to Britain. He knew he was rather useless without his leg - he wasn’t dumb after all. He wouldn’t remain useless though. Hermione had written him that even if no cure was found, they could enchant something she called a ‘leg brace’ for him, which would allow him to walk and run perfectly fine. Better than an enchanted peg leg, at least, and that had worked for Moody, so he expected to be back in service soon enough. His grandmother wouldn’t try to stop him, he knew that. A Longbottom did his duty, no matter the cost. It still irked him, to leave while his friends and comrades in arms stayed, kept risking their lives while he was sent home. It felt like he was letting them down.

At least Ginny had stayed. He didn’t want to think what would have happened if Ginny and his fiancée, Hannah Abbot, had met. He had told her of the fight that cost him the use of his leg, which had scared her. He had tried to lighten the mood by telling her about the time spent in the field hospital, and his discussions with Ginny, ending with her throwing fruits at him, but all it had done was persuading her that ‘that redhead’ had designs on her fiancé. Neville didn’t think that her suspicion was true, but as long as Ginny remained in Poland and his fiancée trusted him that he had no designs on anyone else, he was happy enough.

Now all he needed was getting one of those leg braces, and someone to enchant it, and he could be back in service in a week, or less. Though, looking at Hannah cuddling with him, on the bench in the Longbottom Greenhouse, he felt like doing that would let her down. He sighed. A Longbottom did his duty, no matter the cost.

*****


	27. Foreign Politics

**Chapter 27: Foreign Politics**

Makary Bercik was frustrated. He should be elated instead, he knew that. He was standing in the remains of a Russian base camp, hidden in one of the forests of Poland, abandoned like the others they had found. The Russians had left, and in a hurry - they hadn’t even taken the time to destroy the camp’s earthen fortifications. Wizards all over Eastern Poland reported the same findings. It seemed his country was free, truly free, with the invading forces gone back to Russia. But unlike most of his compatriots, who were openly, loudly celebrating, he didn’t feel like celebrating. He didn’t trust the Russians. They had stabbed Poland in the back once too often.

The Tsar might be claiming he wanted peace to every reporter and diplomat who was willing to meet him, and a lot were, but Makary was no fool. The Tsar’s announcement that he was recalling his War Wizards to Russia had come in the wake of numerous reports of entire units of Russians not only deserting, but attacking other Russians. It was quite clear that he was losing control of his forces, maybe even his country. The Polish and British forces should use this opportunity, and press on. Push into Russia, to Moscow even. They might even take the Prussians along.

At least Makary thought so. Alas, he was not the interim Minister for Magic of Poland, but a simple commander in the Free Polish Forces. And the Minister clearly was not willing to have Poland push into Russia when there was an offer for peace on the table. And he was not the only one. Makary looked around. His wizards and witches were joking around. Lena was waving a red flag they had found and shouting war cries with a fake Russian accent, to the amusement of Miroslaw Antonik, his second in command. If even the soldiers who knew how treacherous Russians were were acting like this, odds were every civilian was already assuming the war had ended.

Makary sighed. Even if he feared that the Russians had left some wizards behind, hidden in the forests, or even the towns, his wizards and witches had earned this celebration. He’d not spoil it for them, although he felt they were making a mistake. He still checked if the guards were on their posts and not slacking off. At least they had, finally, after weeks of pleading, been able to get some enhanced British radar coverage to Poland that could detect disillusioned flyers, so the threat of surprise attacks by broom riders was neutralized. Another reason, Makary thought, for the sudden withdrawal of the Tsar’s forces.

Speaking of broom riders… Makary caught a glimpse of red hair coming closer, and quickly cast a Scourgify on his robes with a smile.

*****

“Good evening, Commander Bercik.” Ginny saluted the Polish officer.

“Good evening, Corporal Weasley.” Commander Bercik returned the salute. Technically it was a simple military greeting, but his smile and tone turned it into flirting. She didn’t blush at the open admiration in his eyes, not anymore.

“What brings the best British Broom Rider to this muddy forward camp?” Makary, Commander Bercik, Ginny reminded herself, asked in that amused voice of his she had grown so familiar lately.

“As you certainly know my unit has been attached to yours for several weeks now as the aerial scout and air cover element.” She met his eyes. “You have not been obliviated, have you?” she asked with fake concern.

“If I had, the sight of you would have broken the spell, rest assured of that.”

That had her blushing, though she she masked it, or tried to, with anger at his unprofessional conduct. Sometimes she wondered if Makary - Commander Bercik - would be as forward if she was wearing robes instead of fatigues.

“But let me rephrase that. What brings the best British broom rider to me?” His eyes added ‘and the most beautiful’ to his question, while his smile widened.

Ginny was certain that he thought he knew what made her walk up to the lone commander while everyone else not on guard was celebrating the end of the fighting in Poland. The problem was, she wasn’t certain herself why she had done that. Or she didn’t want to be certain.

“I wanted to ask if you had any orders for me.” A lame excuse. Even a recruit knew not to say that to an officer, any officer, after the first day in uniform. Even if technically, she was not his direct subordinate.

“Ah. You are truly exceptional. Most of our comrades seem content to assume the war is over, and act accordingly.”

That was a safe topic, in Ginny’s opinion, so she latched onto it. “That is a foolish assumption. The war won’t be over until the Russian Tsar has been brought down and his regime replaced by a democratic government. We have now, at best, an armistice.” Ginny wasn’t the military expert Ron had become, but she wasn’t ignorant either.

Makary nodded to her words. “You are, of course, correct. I do expect hostilities to restart as soon as the Russians have dealt with their internal troubles.”

“We should press our advantage, and finish them off while they are weakened.” That’s what Ron would say, and had said.

“Unfortunately, that decision is not ours to make. The best we can do is use this break to rest and recover ourselves, and hope we will be better at that than our enemies.”

Ginny nodded at that. “Yes. That seems the best we can do.”

“Splendid! Then let us just do exactly that!”

Makary grinned, and offered her his arm as if he was about to lead her into a ballroom, and not back to a bunch of wizards and witches celebrating in an abandoned enemy camp. Wizards and witches who were, Ginny realized, staring and whispering at the two of them. She really wanted to hex Makary.

*****

Vladimir Petrovich Volodin sat next to Sasha, a glass in his left hand and his right hand close to the holster for his wand. Just in case the man she was talking to tried something. He hadn’t missed the looks the scarred man had sent her way when she had entered the dive they were meeting in, filled with smoke from cheap cigarettes and men down on their luck. Most of them were wearing at least parts of fatigues. A fur cap there, an army jacket, military boots… the bar was catering to ex-military members and those who liked to pose as such.

The man Sasha was talking to was not a poser. Vitaly Yegorovich Zhirov. A former company commander in the war in Afghanistan. He weathered the massive changes following the collapse of the Soviet Union, only to be discharged after the First Chechen War, with more scars but no money. Too smart to become a thug for an oligarch, not connected enough to start his own syndicate. A soldier without an army. And a squib.

He wasn’t looking at Sasha anymore like he wanted to bed her. Vladimir saw the older man was sitting straighter, an unconscious sign of respect. He had a slight pouch, but he looked still fit, and not too deep into his cups even at this hour. His voice though sounded as if he was chain smoking the worst Turkish cigarettes one could buy.

“So… you say you want to hire me to train a bunch of people. Show them how to fight. You and your friend look like you’re no strangers to war, you have that look. So why would you need me? Who are you going to fight? A syndicate? The Chechens?”

Sasha grinned, and leaned forward. “The Tsar’s forces.”

That made Zhirov laugh out loud. Then he sobered up and narrowed his eyes.

Sasha shook her head. “Yes, that Tsar.“

“You’re mad.”

“We’re not. The purebloods in Britain, France and Prussia have fallen. The Tsar’s forces are in disarray and most of the muggleborn and half-bloods in his army deserted during the retreat from Poland, many of them joining the Revolutionary Forces. The British fight with rifles and magic. We will do the same, and topple the Tsar.” Sasha was staring right into Zhirov’s eyes while she spoke with an intensity that made even Vladimir, who had seen her drunk out of her mind, and sick, and grumpy, and sad, shiver.

“Who are you?” Zhirov hissed.

“I am Mолот.” Hammer.

Another hiss. “I heard Mолот was man.”

“You heard wrong. Are you with us?”

Zhirov held Sasha’s gaze for a moment, then leaned back, laughing. “I guess I am joining the Red Army, again.” He gave the witch a salute. “I expect to be paid though. Killing purebloods doesn’t pay for food.”

“You will.”

Vladimir signalled Konstantin and Klava, who had been waiting outside, disillusioned, while Sasha and Zhirov shook hands. After they had paid Zhirov’s tab, the group apparated back to their camp.

It was as muddy and hopefully as hidden as the camps they had been living in in Poland, but they had added camouflage nets over the enchanted tents, and had colored those with matching patterns. It wouldn’t do much more than what magical concealment wasn’t already doing, but it helped at least psychologically in making the camp look different from those of the pureblood forces.

Sasha’s arrival caught the usual attention from the camp. People had questions to be answered, orders to be clarified, and information to be shared. It wasn’t quite official, but “Mолот” was, for all that mattered, the leader of the Revolution. The hammer that would crush the purebloods. She handled it well, as Vladimir had known she would. Klava and Konstantin went off with Zhirov, to show him his tent, and the tents where they had stored the weapons they had ‘acquired’ so far. Mostly AK-47s, but also heavier weapons. RPGs of various types were particularly sought after, since those could go through the linked and overlapping shields of War Wizards, as the British had proven. But not many knew how to use the weapons. Hence the need for Zhirov.

Vladimir followed Sasha. His own position was as unofficial as hers, but no one questioned him. He was her shadow. Her guard. Her voice and her wand, if needed. And he’d not fail her.

*****

Percy Weasley kept a polite, even respectful smile on his face even though he really wanted to roll his eyes and sneer at Karl Wolf, the representative of Magical Bavaria. The man was droning on about ‘this chance for peace, this opportunity to mend the wounds the recent conflict had caused, rebuild what has been destroyed’. As if his opinion mattered here. Magical Bavaria was not a miniature nation like so many other Magical German States, but the only German voice that carried any weight was Prussia. Everyone attending the summit here - delegates from all the nations at least formally at war with each other in Europe - knew that. Still, listening to fools was a small price to pay for the opportunity this provided him with. He was the delegate from Wizarding Britain, and he was not just a glorified messenger for Harry and Hermione.

He was still a bit surprised that neither of them was attending the summit in person, though last he heard, most everyone felt it was a good decision - rumor was their tempers had become worse lately, ever since the Russians had offered an armistice. Percy wasn’t certain why, exactly - with the war all but on hold, it seemed as if they should be under less stress. He hadn’t heard of any new crisis brewing, even the Prime Minister seemed busy with muggle Britain’s politics. What could be affecting them so, then?

He shelved the question and focused on the next speaker, Mademoiselle Francine Rancourt, the delegate from Magical France. Young for her office - but so was Percy himself - she didn’t show any nervousness. No accent either. After the usual words about how important this summit was, she got on topic: “While Magical France understands that in order to gain a lasting peace, some trust has to be extended, only a fool would have missed the fact that this offer of peace negotiations was made after a series of defeats suffered by the occupation forces in Poland. Yet France’s stance is that with the right assurances and precautions taken, a peace can be achieved without putting us at risk.”

Percy understood that - France had suffered in the war, mostly during their alliance with Russia, even though no one had been so crass as to mention that here yet. And while they were at war with Russia, they had not yet deployed significant forces, and could count on Russia hitting Poland and Prussia first, should the war restart, so France would have time to prepare still.

Poland’s delegate had not spoken against peace, but had been keen on keeping as many allied forces in their country as possible. A sentiment that Romania shared, though that particular country also had to consider their delicate internal politics - too many muggleborn forces stationed there would cause more harm than good. Percy had suggested to Viktor Krum, who was one of the few leaders of state to appear in person, that Bulgaria could send some wizards to Romania. They seemed to have avoided bad blood between muggleborns and purebloods there, though that would leave Bulgaria’s border with the Ottomans a bit exposed.

Magical Hungary’s statement boiled down to: “We’re out of the war, we want no quarrel with anyone else.” No one but them knew if that was true - the state of their relationship to Magical Austria left most diplomats he had spoken to stumped. Most agreed that the two countries would either ally, or go to war against each other, but no one could say which would happen.

Russia’s delegate had simply read a statement from the Tsar, repeating his offer of peace talks - which this summit technically wasn’t part of - and the order to his forces to only defend themselves and Russia’s soil against any attack. At least it was brief.

Percy exchanged a glance with the Prussian delegate, Markus Schmidt. Schmidt had not spoken yet, neither had Percy himself, but it was clear that the summit was headed down the path the two of them had expected. Too many nations were tired of the war, unwilling to miss out on a chance for peace, for them to provide any support for an invasion of Russia. Britain and Prussia could probably launch an invasion by themselves, but they would be taking heavy casualties without French and Polish support, and Russia could then successfully raise the spectre of Grindelwald’s aggression again. Even if they won they’d be further weakened and under suspicion from many other nations then, without much political capital left at the ICW, and not many allies left in Europe either.

Percy had to admit that the Tsar had won this round - he had stopped the invasion of his country without firing a single spell. Time would tell how much this would help Russia though. There was more than open warfare to fight an enemy.

*****

Viktor Krum was feeling quite happy. The summit had been a success. The war was, if not over, so at least on hold while peace negotiations started. He had been disappointed that Hermione hadn’t been attending the summit in person, but Percival Weasley had been quite pleasant to talk to. He had come a long way from the young bureaucrat he had met during the Triwizard Tournament. Quite open to the notion of stationing a few British troops in Bulgaria while Bulgarian wizards reinforced Romania. Though he would have still preferred to meet Hermione. And Harry. On the other hand, maybe he should wait until the wedding.

*****

Tsar Cyril Dmitrovich Romanov sat in his office, gazing upon the portraits of his ancestors while nursing a drink. He felt good, or should. His ploy had worked. Britain and Prussia hadn’t managed to push their allies into supporting an invasion of Russia, and his War Wizards were back in Russia, and free to deal with the mudblood rabble and other traitors. Once his spymaster provided him with the locations of the mudblood leader, this “Mолот”, this revolution, no, this rebellion would be over.

And yet… he glanced at the portrait of Princess Anna Karina. It was still empty. His great-grandfather still looked at him in disapproval. Well, his portrait did. He told himself his real great-grandfather’s soul would approve. Times had changed, after all, and he had saved Russia. So far. If only his War Wizards would find those rebels! He emptied his goblet and refilled it with a wave of his wand.

They had been nipping at his forces, ambushing his wizards. They were even using muggle weapons. Not as well as the British, Gerasim Alexandrovich Yenin and Nina Ilyina agreed on that, but well enough to cause far more damage than half-trained mudbloods should be able to do with their wands. Gerasim had once again asked to use muggle weapons, or even muggles, to battle them, the fool. The Tsar had sent him to the eastern border. Staring down Chinese Wizards in the cold should teach him to not anger the ruler of Magical Russia.

He needed pureblood commanders who could beat the enemy without sinking down to their level. Nina had made some progress, but she had taken a lot of War Wizards to beat the rabble she faced, which hampered the rebuilding and recruiting he needed to save Russia. Worse was the treason that was spreading. Not just the mudbloods, even the half-bloods couldn’t be trusted, and according to the last reports he had received, even the poorer purebloods were becoming rebellious over the evacuations of the smaller villages he had ordered. He cursed both at the fools and at the fact that his goblet was empty again. It wasn’t as if he had ordered their deportation, but his forces couldn’t protect every little village! Couldn’t keep every little wizard hovel from supporting the rebel rabble. If he wanted to beat the rebels, he had to isolate them from all support.

The door to his office opened, and he frowned. That shouldn’t have happened. He had given strict orders that he wasn’t to be disturbed. He narrowed his eyes when he saw it was the Tsarevich, Alexander Cyrilovich Romanov. His heir, Baba Yaga help him! He was about to ask what Alexander wanted when he saw the dozen people following his son. Ah.

The Tsar stood up while the group - all young, all friends of Alexander - spread out, with his son in the middle. “What is the meaning of this interruption?” he asked in an acerbic voice, even though he already knew what was happening.

Alexander looked nervous, but met his eyes without flinching, much. “You’re leading our country into disaster, Father. The people have lost their faith in you.”

“The people stand behind me. Those who matter. The rebel rabble will soon be dealt with.” The Tsar noticed the rest of the young wizards fidget, some kept nervously looking at the door, which had closed again.

Alexander shook his head. “The ‘rabble’, as you call them, matters most! Are you so blinded by your arrogance that you cannot see the writing on the wall? The muggleborns have brought every other powerful nation in Europe down. Britain, France, Prussia, Poland - pureblood rule has failed everywhere! Russia will be next if you continue with your plan. The only hope to avoid the bloodshed that is coming this is to reform our country. We need to embrace every wizard, regardless of their birth.”

“I see you have fallen for the lies spread by the mudbloods. Russia will not fall to their poison. We will crush the rebels and will restore the natural order. Blood will tell.” The Tsar shook his head. How could his son be so foolish as to betray his own country and his blood? He had known he had been weak, soft, but this?

“The only thing blood will tell are stories of war and destruction, Father. I will not let you drag Russia down with you in a foolish war against history.”

The Tsarevich was foolish, but maybe not as soft as Cyril had thought. He raised an eyebrow. “You will not let me? Are you not only defying me, but actually trying to depose me?” What else would he have led a dozen other young fools here for? But did he have the guts to go through with it? Was he a Romanov, despite his foolish notions?

Alexander swallowed, but his voice was firm when he answered: “Yes. My duty to my country is more important than my duty to my family.” He and his friends raised their wands at the Tsar. “Surrender, Father!”

The Tsar stared at his son, then scoffed. At his mental command, metal blades shot out of the floor, out of the walls, out of the ceiling, cutting, slicing, beheading and impaling his traitorous son’s friends before any of them could even mutter a spell. In the midst of the carnage, his son was spared, though two blades had cut his hand, and his wand, and metal hands held him prisoner.

While his son was shaking in shock and the blood from his friends was covering the floor, the Tsar slowly walked around his desk, towards Alexander.

“It is said that the first student of Slytherin created this room, after his return from Scotland to his home country, copying one of the most powerful enchantments his teacher had showed him. You’re not the first traitor whose plan was foiled by this room. The secret of it is only passed on to the new Tsar, by the portraits of his ancestors hung in this very room, after he has been crowned. You, of course, will never know it.” He spoke almost casually as he stepped through blood, to stand in front of his son.

Alexander, to his credit, had overcome his shock by the time the Tsar had reached him, and was glaring at him in defiance, his stare not wavering when Cyril raised his own wand. “You are dooming our country, our people, Father.”

The Tsar wanted to kill him, but hesitated. Alexander was still his son. To shed his own blood, here, under the eyes of his ancestors… he glanced back at the portraits. All of them were watching him. Even Princess Anna Karina. Instead of slaying his own flesh and blood he stunned and body-bound Alexander. Lowering his wand, he turned away and dismissed the metal hands and blades, restoring his office to its normal appearance.

He was about to call for his spymaster when he hesitated. His son had come with a dozen fellow traitors. How was it possible that this had gone undetected, with so many privy to the plans? Had his Spymaster made such a crucial mistake as not having a source in his son’s inner circle, or had he deliberately overlooked this attempt? Who could the Tsar trust? Where, outside this room, would he be safe?

He was still pondering those questions long after two guards had taken his son to the dungeons. The portrait of Princess Anna Karina was empty again.

*****


	28. Plots and Plans

**Chapter 28: Plots and Plans**

Vladimir Petrovich Volodin was torn. On one hand, having good relations between the leader of the Russian Revolutionary Forces and their most experienced military advisor and instructor for muggle weapons and tactics was certainly a good thing. For the Revolution. On the other hand, seeing Sasha and Captain Vitaly Yegorovich Zhirov being so… cordial with each other made him uneasy. Unhappy. Maybe even je… he didn’t want to go there. He liked seeing Sasha laughing. It made him happy. She didn’t laugh enough, in his opinion, even counting the circumstances they found themselves in. He just wished she would laugh more when it was just the two of them. Lately she had become a bit distant. Less open. He missed the camaraderie they had shared, back when it had been the two of them, and Klava and Konstantin against the world. Not that he’d ever say so, of course. Sasha had already so many responsibilities, so much was resting on her shoulders, he wouldn’t dare to add to her load. Even though he certainly would not be unhappy if Vitaly Yegorovich Zhirov would suddenly be needed at say, the shores of the Black Sea. Well, he could dream.

At least the two of them currently were away from the main camp, where Zhirov was training and instructing, and news from the war were encouraging. According to the latest rumors, the Tsarevich had tried to depose his father. He had failed, but to see the enemy camp divided was good news. They said a dozen of the Tsarevich’s closest friends and co-conspirators had been killed. Their parents would would hopefully be less eager to support the murderer of their sons. Unless they wanted to prove their loyalty - purges were a certainty in Russia after such an incident.

Of course, there were other consequences in the field. More deserters, for example. And wizards and witches who wanted to change sides, even. Vladimir wasn’t inclined to trust those fully - who could say if they were not spies, or would change sides again, should the Revolutionary Forces suffer a setback? Of course, there were means to ensure their loyalty…

One of the latest deserters was why Vladimir and Sasha were here, in the Leningrad base. The witch had surrendered to a scouting force near Leningrad, and had asked to see Sasha for matters of the utmost importance. Many defectors from the Tsarist forces did that, of course, trying to suck up to the future leader of Magical Russia, or offering information in order to gain a higher rank, but that witch had asked to see Sasha, not “Mолот”, Hammer, as she was known in the Revolutionary Forces. And once Sasha had been informed of the request she had traveled to the base almost at once. She also had been, and still was, so tense, Vladimir had not dared to ask her what was up with this deserter. He had seen her temper flare up before, and it wasn’t pretty. Unless it happened to someone else.

So instead of asking his friend right away, he was studying the woman they had come to see, to check for dangers before she could meet Sasha. The leader of the Revolutionary Forces had tried to argue, but when it came to her safety, Vladimir was unmovable. That it allowed him to study the woman before the meeting was simply a bonus, as far as he was concerned.

Lidiya Sergevna Golubeva was sitting on a folding chair in a wizard’s tent as if she was in a salon in a palace, not a single strand of her long, blonde hair was out of place and her robes perfectly arranged. The picture of an aristocrat. Which she was, of course - the Golubevs had been elevated to nobility in the 18th century. He didn’t detect any spells, and the only thing of note she had with her was an empty portrait, her wand and enchanted travel bag having been surrendered already. She met his eyes while he was studying her, and a faint smile appeared on her face, a hint of familiarity he could not place.

It didn’t matter. As far as he could tell, she posed no danger to Sasha, so he nodded to her, and left the tent to report to Sasha, which was waiting impatiently outside. “She carries no enchanted objects, nor did I find any poison or other dangers, Mолот.”

Sasha didn’t even wait for him to finish his sentence. She simply nodded, and went inside. Vladimir followed her, of course.

Lidiya had risen from her chair when Sasha entered. “Alexandra.” She gracefully nodded, an aristocrat greeting a commoner with more courtesy than usual. Or more familiarity.

“Lidiya.” Sasha nodded back. Both women stared at each other - the aristocrat in subdued but still obviously expensive robes, and the military commander in old soviet fatigues. Vladimir was suddenly struck with how similar they looked - the same shade of blonde hair, and the same eyes. “You asked for me.”

Lidiya smiled, wrily. “Direct as always.” The way she said it, the slight reproach was clearly understandable. From the way Sasha narrowed her eyes, she hadn’t missed it either. “Though understandable, given the situation,” Lidiya continued.

“I know my situation. Though I wonder what situation would cause a daughter of the House of Golubev to desert the Tsar. Your loyalty to the House Romanov is exemplary, after all.”

Vladimir detected more than a hint of old grievances in that sentence.

“The Tsar killed Sergei, Alexandra,” the aristocrat answered. Sasha jerked, then clenched her teeth together. Vladimir felt a sudden urge of jealousy towards this Sergei, then shame.

“I see,” Sasha pressed out. “My condolences, Lidiya.”

Lidiya nodded, seemingly composed. “He was supporting the Tsarevich, as was his duty as a friend, and as a Russian, in his attempt to end this conflict that is threatening to tear the Motherland apart. Sadly they failed.”

“You seem quite well-informed, for someone who was not in the Tsarevich’s confidence a few years ago.”

The pureblood witch smiled, faintly. “Circumstances changed after you entered the military.”

Sasha nodded. “And the Tsarevich himself?”

“He is still alive, but confined to the Tsar’s dungeons.”

“You realize that we are not the British. We cannot breach the Tsar’s palace to spring a prisoner,” Sasha answered, with a hint of regret showing in her voice. Vladimir was certain not even the British would be able to accomplish that, not without going through the entirety of the War Wizards first.

“I know, Alexandra. His fate will be decided by the Tsar, and no one else.”

“That seems a rather fatalistic stance, especially for you.”

A wry and weary grin answered Sasha. “Indeed. You’re not the only one who changed. Though I have had some help in that regard.” She pointed at the portrait leaning against the chair. “I’ve brought a witness of the confrontation.”

Vladimir looked at the portrait as a young woman in regal robes appeared on it. “Greetings, Alexandra Irinovna Glebova, Vladimir Petrovich Volodin. My name in life was Princess Anna Karina Romanova. I bear important tidings.”

*****

Luna Lovegood smiled at Hermione’s secretary as she passed her, walking straight to door to the Minister for Magic’s office. She had an appointment, even though Harry and Hermione had said she could visit them at any time, so she was expected, and so there was no need to bother the secretary and keep her from her work. She was a secretary, after all, not a doorwitch. Or was that bouncer? No, not bouncer. Nothing bouncy on the secretary. Now that she thought of it, none of the bouncers she had seen had looked bouncy either. They had looked rather hard. Compact. Why were they called bouncers then? It must be a muggle mystery! She filed the possible Quibbler article topic in her mind, then realized that the secretary had gone and opened the door for her. Again. Luna resolved to be faster next time. She shouldn’t keep the poor witch from her real work, it must be quite stressful for her. At least Dean and Robert were not standing up, not anymore, when she came by, even though both still checked her for spells with their wands.

Entering the office, Luna smiled at Hermione, behind her desk, dealing with paperwork? Or parchmentwork? It looked more paper than parchment. “Hello, Hermione!” Then she turned, beaming at Harry, who was sitting in his armchair, as usual. She briefly wondered if he had a chair in his office, seeing as his chair was here, or if he prefered to stand while working there. “Hello Harry!”

Both were surrounded by Trimitites and a few Others. The Trimitites were a pest, feeding on sadness. They had almost nibbled the foundations of Luna’s and her father’s minds away, after her mother had died, or so her father had explained to her when she had been little. Happy thoughts kept them away though, or at least at bay. Luna didn’t know why Trimitites kept following Harry and Hermione around - the two were in love with each other, they had found each other, and they were happy. Or should be. Maybe it was the Others? Could they attract Trimitites? No matter, she had to drive away the Others first!

Opening her arms, she walked towards Hermione with the biggest smile she could muster on her face. Hermione tried to wave her away, but Luna knew all her tricks, and didn’t let anything deter her from giving her friend an Others-repelling hug. She didn’t let up until Hermione made that funny noise again that sounded like the mating call of a Crackling Fairie.

Gripping her shoulders, Luna looked at the youngest Minister for Magic, ever, and pouted. “Have you been eating enough, Hermione? You feel a bit bony, and edgy.”

Without waiting for an answer, she poked her ribs, counting them. She was pleased to see that Hermione had all her ribs, and hadn’t gotten more of them than she needed, and that the Others were gone, as were half of the Trimitites.

While Hermione was sputtering something about balanced meals and work, Luna turned to the laughing Harry. His Others had already fled, and a number of his Trimitites as well. Still, it would be unfair to only give Hermione a hug and not Harry, so she went over to him, and sat down in his lap to hug him. Hermione started to cough after a while, maybe she had caught one of the paperplanes in her throat?

Luna got up again, noticing how flushed Harry looked, maybe they were getting sick, and sat down on the visitor’s chair’s armrest. Maybe today she would manage to find the right spot where her weight would balance the chair on its two left legs. Ah, no, Harry had already cast a sticking charm on the chair’s right legs. She pouted at him, which seemed to drive the last of his Trimitites away. At least for today.

*****

Once Luna had left, Harry Potter exchanged a smile with Hermione. Luna’s visits were always chaotic, but he couldn’t deny that they were a welcome break in their daily routine. He always felt happier after a talk with the girl, and despite her grumbling complaints, he knew Hermione felt the same. He didn’t feel anymore like hexing the next Wizengamot member who tried to waste his time with stupid law proposals when they were still at war. Not much, at least.

Even the dreaded paperwork he had to deal with each day as Chief Warlock felt less like a punishment right now, and more like a chore. Still, there was paperwork, and there was paperwork. “So, according to this report, Sally-Anne is handling the civil wedding of Lieutenant Baker in England.”

Hermione nodded. “She’s very experienced in those matters, after all. Organizing everything is the least we can do for them, given that the good Lieutenant cannot really tell his family how exactly he met and seduced a Bulgarian maiden due to secrecy, and that she’s not some gold digger looking for a gullible rich western husband.” Hermione smirked. “I bet they could never imagine that Stefka’s family is likely to see James as some muggle gold digger looking for a naive pureblood witch.”

“They’ll need some protection until we are sure none of Krum’s relatives will pay them an unannounced visit.” Harry’s comment made both lose their mirth.

“Yes. Viktor assures me though that given the events in the rest of Europe, and Baker’s role in the assault on the Bulgarian Ministry, his relatives have ‘mellowed’, as he puts it.”

“Hopefully he’s correct.” Harry tried not to let his jealousy show. Krum might even have better bigots in his family than he had! At least Dudley had come around some with regards to Magic, but Petunia and Vernon were still as spiteful as ever. He changed the topic. “Speaking of more serious matters, what’s Percy’s take on the diplomatic situation?”

“Nothing changed much there. He’s positive that the coalition will hold together, as long as we’re not provoking Russia, and that reforms will continue in the German Magical States.” That Magical Prussia would become a democracy was a given after the Muggleborn Movement had won the civil war. “Do you need him to deal with the Wizengamot again?”

“No. Most members have realized that we’re not at peace yet, and the flood of proposals to redirect the war funding has dwindled. Justin was very helpful there.” The muggleborn wizard had taken to politics with a vengeance, no doubt coached by his father. Justin was one of the few Wizengamot members Harry trusted implicitly. Or as implicitly as he trusted anyone but Hermione. A muggleborn with training in politics was a rare combination.

Hermione nodded. “We’ve contacted the Revolutionary Forces of Russia, through Viktor. If all goes well we can start to supply them through Romania and Bulgaria, with plausible deniability. Officially, we’re just in Bulgaria to reinforce their border with the Ottomans.”

“That should keep the Tsar too busy to build up an army to attack us.” It also meant that there would be less Russian muggleborns dying in the Russian civil war, or so he hoped. It was the least they could do for them, but with the political situation in Europe and Britain, anything else would do more harm than good. He sighed, and felt the urge to blast something apart with his wand, again. Damn the Tsar!

*****

Neville Longbottom felt slightly annoyed at his family. Sure, his leg was still useless, but he had gotten the brace Hermione had mentioned, enchanted even, and he could walk again normally. He could probably even run again, if they would let him, instead of treating him like an invalid. He was sure Moody never had had such problems!

So, he was sitting on the patio of Longbottom Manor, waited on hand and foot by both house elves and family, instead of working to get back into shape to return to service. At least with the armistice he would not miss out on a battle, wouldn’t let his comrades down. Sadly, Hannah, who understood his thoughts on the matter perfectly, was away this morning. Shopping she had said, and meeting Susan Bones.

“Neville? You have a visitor.”

Neville looked up, his grandmother took a seat next to him. Ah, one of those visitors, coming to see the Head of the Longbottom family, not the wounded war hero. Or not just the wounded war hero. He stood up when Amos Diggory was led inside by one of their house elves, offering his hand and ignoring the man’s attempts to have him stay seated. He wasn’t a cripple. “Mister Diggory, welcome to Longbottom Manor.”

“Mister Longbottom.” Amos shook his hand, then kissed his grandmother’s hand.

Another elf served some refreshments. A bit of meaningless chatting about the weather - not about Quidditch, every knew that would be a tactless reminder of the death of Cedric, who had been a promising seeker, at least in Diggory’s opinion - followed. Then Diggory set his glass down.

“Mister Longbottom. I am certain you’re aware of the changes our country went through in the last years. Changes that affected everyone, often painfully,” Diggory began.

“Of course,” Neville answered, raising his guard. Such talk often made him long for the battlefield. It was almost as dangerous, or had been so, in the eyes of many. The war with France and Russia had changed that, united the country. A common foe tended to have that effect.

“With peace in our grasp, and elections coming up, many are wondering which path our country will take.” Diggory couldn’t hide his distaste completely. Neville knew most of the older families didn’t like that the Wizengamot seats were not appointed or inherited anymore. Well, most of the older families that were not yet extinct. The Wizengamot electing the Minister for Magic was fine, of course. Neville nodded, sipping from his glass to avoid commenting. He wouldn’t commit himself. Not yet.

“Due to those changes, those willing to follow a family tradition of serving their country in the Wizengamot are now forced to run for a seat as a candidate. I am sure, given your family’s history, you have already thought about that yourself.”

Neville had, if briefly. Serving in the army had meant he could do his duty without sitting in the Wizengamot. He was sure his parents, both Aurors, would have understood his choice, had they been able to understand anything at all. Not that he’d say that. “I’ve been concentrating on fighting in the war. Flights of fancy such as those would have been a distraction that could have spelt my death on the battlefield, you understand.”

Diggory smiled. “Of course. But with the war about to end, and with you having done your duty, and more, on the battlefield, you must have thought about this.”

Neville took another sip. He really wished he had stayed in Poland.

“You are a war hero. You defied You-Know-Who to his face, slew his snake, and led the Hogwarts resistance.”

“With Ginny Weasley.”

“Yes, yes. And you served, bravely, admirably in our war with France and Russia. By all accounts, your actions were nothing short of heroic.”

Neville looked down. He was all too aware of his shortcomings in the war. If he had been a bit faster, if he had cast a shield instead of firing his gun… if, if, if….

“Mister Longbottom, I represent a coalition of more traditional families.”

Neville understood where this was going. He glanced at his grandmother. She nodded, briefly, but stayed silent. Leaving the decision up to him.

“For those elections, you are a perfect candidate. A war hero, serving against You-Know-Who, and against France and Russia. Popular among all circles. Famous. Without reproach.”

A year or two ago, Neville would have blushed. These days he didn’t. And he had less patience. “Mister Diggory. What are you getting at?”

If the interruption surprised Amos Diggory he didn’t show it. “We’d like you to run for a seat in the Wizengamot.”

Neville had seen that coming. It wasn’t a bad idea, to be honest. The war would be ending soon, one way or the other, even if the Army took him back he’d not stay there forever. As a Wizengamot member, he’d be able to serve his country. Do his duty.

“And we want you to run for Minister.”

That he hadn’t seen coming. “What?”

*****

Tsar Cyril Dmitrovich Romanov was pacing in his office. He was alone, with only the portraits as company, so he didn’t have to maintain a calm, controlled facade. The civil war against the mudblood rabble wasn’t going as well as he had hoped. After his son’s foolish actions even some pureblood nobles had deserted, which had necessitated even stricter measures to ensure the loyalty of the noble families. Which of course bred some more resentment. Not that he had a choice - anything less would have been a sign of weakness, and no Tsar could afford that. The noble families would turn on him in a heartbeat.

Sighing, he sat down and poured himself another goblet of burning vodka. He idly noted that Princess Anna Karina’s portrait was back. A good sign, he decided. He could use every bit of support. He downed the goblet, enjoying the burning feel in his throat, then the warmth in his stomach. To himself he could admit that things were not as well as he and his government claimed. With the mudbloods revolting, forcing him to use his War Wizards to protect his country, he couldn’t send a big part of them out to prepare the surprise attack from inside Britain, Prussia and France. And of course he was aware how many pureblood countries had fallen to mudbloods in this war. Any fool could see the danger to his reign, and while he was many things, he wasn’t a fool.

The safest course of action - cowardly, but safe - would be to make peace, and start some reforms to placate the mudbloods inside and outside Russia. Would have been - he doubted that it would work at this point, things had already gone too far. But he couldn’t have done it, anyway. He had a sacred duty to defend the rights of purebloods, their very way of life. Who if not him was left to raise the pureblood banner? And even if his plan to defeat his foreign enemies could not be implemented, he had at least managed to stop them from invading Russia. He could deal with Russia’s mudbloods, and as long as he could avoid another war for the next few years after that, he could rebuild. Russia would serve as a beacon for purebloods, attracting the best and brightest, leaving the mudbloods with the dregs.

As long as his War Wizards beat the Russian mudbloods. He downed another goblet. And if they, if he failed… He closed his eyes. He might fail his duty to his country, to his culture, but he’d not fail his duty to his family. News of his son’s actions and plans, and his imprisonment were spreading, he had made sure of that. Should the unthinkable happen… at least the heir of House Romanov would survive as an ally of the mudbloods. His family would live on.

*****

The Prime Minister was holding another meeting with those in the know about the Magical World. After his squib bodyguards had done all they could, using various magic items often clandestinely purchased or commissioned, to make sure no one was listening in.

“With the war with Magical Russia on hold, and a possible peace in sight, we have to revisit our plans, gentlemen.”

Plans, everyone present knew, that had been put on hold in the face of the common threat of Magical Europe. With that now close to be solved, things would be changing.

“What’s the status of our assets in the Magical World? Nigel?”

“With the changes by the new administration, a number of squibs in our employ have been reconnecting with their families. Or what is left of them. Those remain our best sources on the civilian side. With our armed forces and the magicals working so closely together in the Military, we are aware of all developments on that front,” Nigel Robinson answered.

“Such close working relations will breed closer personal relations. Are divided loyalties a concern, should the worst case happen?” The Prime Minister certainly didn’t want to deal with renegade Special Forces in addition to rebellious wizards.

“I wish I could deny this, but I fear we cannot count on our most experienced Special Forces, should we try to send them against the magicals. Since so many of the magicals are muggleborns, and British citizens, most of our forces deployed with them consider them not just allies, but effectively fellow British soldiers.”

And that was without all the fraternization between the soldiers. The Prime Minister knew he should have seen that coming as soon as he had realized just how equal witches were in Wizarding Britain, even and especially in their armed forces.

He sighed. “Well, the military option was always at best a last resort. Even with the new resources we have, I’m not certain we’d win an armed conflict, unless a sizeable part of the magical population sides with us. That leaves the political options.”

“It’s not that much better looking there. Potter and Granger remain as popular as they were. The part of the magical population most likely to oppose them is also the part least likely to support us in a bid for more control.”

“And with them out of the picture?” The Prime Minister didn’t mention the various ways of achieving that.

“That is difficult to say. Justin Finch-Fletchley is one of the more prominent members of their Wizengamot, and will almost certainly keep his seat in the upcoming election. He might be our best option, but due to his personal history with Potter and Granger, it’s not certain that he’ll follow his father’s lead if forced to choose. If the two were violently removed, so to speak, it’s almost a certainty that he’d try to continue their policies. If not, then there is the possibility that he’d support unification with the United Kingdom. Especially if it would mean an influential position for himself.”

“We’re not talking assassinations here, Nigel.” The Prime Minister made a mental note to invite Finch-Fletchley’s father to lunch.

“Of course not, sir. Though our biggest problem are not our national magicals, but the international magicals. As the French are currently finding out.”

The Prime Minister nodded. The French Président had all but taken over Magical France, but had to scramble and even use the British Marriage ploy to deflect concerns by the ICW. He was still backpedaling. “I think everyone is aware of that. Do we know what the Magicals are planning with regards to the relationship between the United Kingdom and Wizarding Britain?”

“That hasn’t been a topic in any of the circles we have access to so far, sir.”

“I think that should change. Try to arrange that, Nigel.” That should show him just what his ‘colleagues’ were planning.

“Very well, Sir.”

*****


	29. Russia's Hammer

**Chapter 29: Russia’s Hammer**

“To peace!” 

Daniel Jones toasted with his friends and fellow Aurors Jennifer-Anne Wilkinson and Jerome Pearson. They were sitting in the Leaky Cauldron, still in their uniforms. Jennifer had unbound her blonde hair though, and Jerome and Daniel had opened their cloaks. 

“Let’s hope it lasts,” Jennifer added, after emptying her mug. She had come straight from Forensics.

“It’ll last as soon as the Tsar’s dead and buried. Or burnt,” Jerome, the animal expert, answered.

“The Tsar and his War Wizards,” Daniel added. “Only obstacles left for peace.” He waved at Tom for another round. Turning back to his friends, he asked: “Did you pull election duty as well?”

“I think every officer did. We’re still weeks away, but they are acting as if they expect a country-wide riot.” Jerome snorted.

“To be fair, those are the first democratic elections in the history of Wizarding Britain. A lot can go wrong.”

“Didn’t we kill all trouble makers already during the Revolution?” Daniel frowned. If they had to deal with another Blood War...

His former year-mate sighed, shaking her head so her hair obscured her face for a moment. “We dealt with the terrorists. Passionate voters clashing with each other is another thing.”

“What’s there to clash about? We won here, we won in Europe.” Daniel liked things simple.

“Well, there’s the question of where we’ll go from here. Do we join the United Kingdom? Or declare our independence?” Jennifer leaned back, opening her own cloak. “I’d not mind more modern uniforms, but I’d rather not deal with the old boys in the Metropolitan Police all day.”

“And I’d rather not have to treat manticores as an endangered species,” Jerome added when Tom brought them the next round of beers.

Daniel was puzzled. “If we’re not already part of the United Kingdom, but not a sovereign nation either, what are we then?”

Jennifer grinned, sipping from her ale. “No one knows, but for Harry and Hermione, I bet. But the question you should be asking is: What do we want to be?”

Daniel didn’t ponder that for long. “If we join the United Kingdom then there’s no chance at all that we’ll have to follow pureblood laws ever again.”

“Westminster’s laws are not much better. My parents complain all the time. And we might have to give up our wands, if they are classified as weapons.”

Daniel stared at Jerome. “That has to be a joke. Giving up our wands? Over my dead body! The purebloods tried that already once!”

“Well… it’s very unlikely, but we all know just how messed up things can get if we simply apply British laws to magical cases.” Jennifer emptied her second ale.

Everyone groaned, remembering particularly bad examples.

“But becoming independent… abandoning Britain? We’d end up like magical yanks! The horror!” Jerome laughed.

“Worse, if we isolate us from Britain we might end up as the new purebloods in a century or two…”

That was a sobering thought. Daniel ordered another round.

*****

“Paperwork is a curse. Darkest magic, I tell you!” Harry announced after he had closed the door to Hermione’s office, then fell into his seat with the air of a man who had just run a marathon. 

Hermione Granger couldn’t help but grin in response to his antics. She didn’t loathe paperwork as much as he did, but correcting the mistakes of others quickly got old. She didn’t grin for long though,

“We’ve got a meeting coming up with the Prime Minister,” she announced, and sent a memo over to him - with a levitation spell, of course, not as a paper plane.

“What about? Is there a new crisis? Did the Russians do something on the muggle front?” Harry asked while grabbing the memo. He sounded almost eager.

“The topic of the meeting is ‘Determining the relationship between the United Kingdom and Wizarding Britain’,” Hermione answered.

“Oh.”

“Yes. We’ve been avoiding that topic for a long time. I assume with the war all but over, the Prime Minister thinks it’s time to settle it,” Hermione said while approving a request for more funding for the department overseeing and organizing the upcoming elections.

“Damn.”

“Harry, language.” Hermione took a small bit of comfort in the familiar comment. “He’s not the only one. I’ve heard people discussing the topic recently, in the cantina.”

“Wow. They do that? No one ever asked me.”

“I assume they assume we know what we will be doing.”

“That’s a lot of assumptions.”

“Yes.” Hermione closed her eyes, sighing almost as theatrically as Harry did when paperwork was mentioned. 

“Where’s a war when you need one?” Harry chuckled at his own remark, treating it as a joke. 

Hermione knew it was not just a joke. How far had the two of them come if dealing with a war seemed, even only partially in jest, better than facing peace? Sometimes, increasingly more often, she was asking herself if it was all worth it. 

The door opened again, and Luna breezed in, ignoring - as usual - the frantic attempts of Hermione’s secretary to stop her. Hermione smiled, and nodded at the apologising witch before the door closed.

“Wow! You’ve got an invasion of Trimitites!” the blonde witch exclaimed. “Did you bust open a nest?” 

Hermione had no idea what Luna was talking about, but she welcomed the interruption. “Hello Luna...” She began, but was cut off when the blonde reporter all but jumped into her lap and glomped on her. “... Oooof!”

*****

Neville sat on a bench, watching his fiancée and his grandmother walking around the wine cellar of Longbottom Mansion. Gran was pointing out the different vintages, and commenting on which occasion the different bottles were used the last time. Neville for once was glad for his leg brace - without it, he wouldn’t have had an excuse to literally sit this out. He already knew the contents of the wine cellar by heart, and he had a lot of thinking to do.

He smiled when Hannah bent down to check a fairy wine held in stasis. He loved her. If anything, his time away from Britain, fighting in the Revolutionary War, had confirmed that. Risking one’s life each day for weeks had a way to realign one’s priorities. Make one see what really was important, how one really felt. And he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

What he didn’t know, yet, was what to do with the rest of his life apart from that. Diggory’s offer had the support from Augusta, she had made that clear. He was certain the majority of the surviving old families supported him as well. And yet - did he want to go up against Hermione? This wasn’t school, where they had been competing for the best grade in Herbology. This was politics, shaping Britain’s future. It wasn’t that he was afraid Hermione would kill him, of course. He was afraid he’d not measure up. 

A Longbottom always did his duty, no matter the cost. But what was his duty? To Britain, and to his family? What vision for Britain’s future did he have? His grandmother, the other old families, had none. They simply wanted to restore the past. Hopefully without the rotten parts. But they had no plans for the future, they were fixated on the past. Glorified it. Treated it as the ideal that it never had been. Neville had been in the War. One lesson he had learned well was that trying to simply repeat what had worked in the past, even if it had worked well for a long time, was a recipe for disaster. And past Britain had stopped working a long time before he himself had even been born. What good could he do, even if he won the election? More importantly, what harm could he cause, to Britain, to everyone?

He looked at Hannah again. Smiling, happy Hannah. Beautiful Hannah. He had a duty towards her as well. Towards her, and towards the family they’d form. His family. His future. He knew what he wanted. What he could do, what he would do when it came to her.

And he knew what he would do. Smiling, he stood up and walked over to his fiancée, with only the slightest hint of a limp.

*****

Vladimir Petrovich Volodin watched Sasha - Mолот - and Lidiya - Lidiya Sergevna Golubeva - go over the plan with the portrait again. The portrait of the Seer Princess, Anna Karina Romanova. The portrait who seemed to know so much more about his dearest… comrade, Sasha, than he did, even after sharing so much with her, in the war. He hadn’t even known her full name, until that pureblood officer mentioned it.

Alexandra Irinovna Glebova. A bastard. Not that he’d hold that against her. In the Revolutionary Forces, ability, not heritage counted. As it should. All were equal at birth, after all. And Sasha, Mолот, had earned her position as the Leader of the Revolution time and again through her deeds. She hadn’t been born into privilege, like Lidiya. Or not really - Vladimir was all but sure the two witches were sisters, half-sisters. Their hair had the same golden shade, a family trait Lidiya had seemingly idly remarked once, when she had caught him staring at the lock she twisted in her hand. And they were too familiar with each other for mere academy acquaintances. And Sergei, killed by the Tsar, had been Lidiya’s brother.

Vladimir wasn’t sure how to feel about that discovery. To think Sasha - Mолот - was of noble blood. Blood wasn’t supposed to mean anything, but… it did. A little. He was of peasant stock himself. To think, to dream, that...

“Vladimir? What do you think?” 

Years of hiding his emotions from pureblood officers kept his face and body from showing how startled he was at Sasha’s question. His mind at been drifting, he realised. A bad, dangerous habit in wartime, especially with Sasha’s life on the line. And his own reputation - he didn’t want to appear distracted or foolish in front of her. He focused quickly on the matter at hand.

“I think we can do the diversion with minimal forces, as long as Zhirov can provide the katyushas and explosives. We can strike from afar, and apparate around the wards and jinxes they can put up.” Vladimir was glad his voice was as professional as possible. It wouldn’t do to show any of his twisted emotions. Especially in front of a portrait of a seer, and that damned perceptive aristocrat.

Sasha looked at him, for a moment she seemed distracted herself, then she nodded in response. “Yes, I concur. We can do this.”

“We can do the diversion. The main assault though…” Vladimir let his voice trail off. The portrait had been adamant that the Revolutionary Forces had to attack and destroy the Russian Academy for the Magical Arts or the Revolution would be crushed. Not the Russian Academy for Battle Wizardry, where War Wizards were trained. Vladimir was sceptical, but Sasha was convinced. Or convinced enough - destroying the Academy would be a blow to the Tsar’s prestige and morale, even if that deadly danger, that Black Death hidden there, was just a portrait’s imagination. If portraits had an imagination. On the other hand, Princess Anna Karina had been a seer. The last seer of the Romanovs, in fact. And her knowledge about the defenses of the Palace and the Academies had panned out so far.

“It will be costly, but it must be done, or the Revolution will perish,” The portrait stated with firm  conviction.

“I know we can take it, but it’s in the middle of Moscow. If the battle spills past the wards, the muggle authorities will take notice and interfere.” That was what Vladimir was worried most about.

“Even then, destroying the Academy and killing Rodion Stanislavovich Klimov is more important than anything else.” 

“We could use the same tactics and take out the Tsar. End the war.”

“Even if I knew all the defenses of the palace, killing the Tsar would not end the war. Not anymore. By sparing his son, the Tsarevich, the Tsar has shown a fatal weakness. Others have noticed what he is doing. Families have been sending their sons and daughters to the Revolution, to ensure no matter who wins the war, the family survives. Like the Tsar did. And in doing so, he has shown that he is not convinced he will win. A fatal weakness for a Tsar. Rodion Stanislavovich Klimov will not follow his orders anymore.”

It made too much sense, given the sudden influx of pureblood recruits the Revolution had seen in the last week. And as it had stated - they knew the defenses of the Academy, but not of the Palace. It would still take a lot of their best forces. Risk a lot of their best forces. “Mолот shouldn’t go though. She’s needed as our leader, even if we fail.” And it would keep her safe. Vladimir saw Sasha’s eyes narrow with sudden anger, and didn’t understand the reason. 

The portrait though was not moved. “Alexandra Irinovna Glebova has to be there. If she isn’t, the chances that we will fail and doom the Revolution are increased. And she’d perish anyway.” 

Vladimir wanted to destroy the portrait for this. Lidiya was amused, for some sick reason, or so he thought, she had that glint in her eyes Sasha had when they had pulled something over a pureblood commander. Sasha herself… she was fuming, he suddenly realised. Like the night she had discovered one of the sentries asleep at his post.

“We’ll execute the operation as planned, as soon as all is ready. Good night, Lidiya, Princess Anna Karina. Vladimir, stay for a moment.”

Still smiling the aristocratic witch shrunk the portrait, and left the tent with the grace of a princess leaving a ball, abandoning Vladimir to the tender mercies of his furious leader. He turned to her, and stood at attention - a fact that somehow made her even angrier. With a muttered curse, she silenced the tent’s entrance, then turned to him. And even though her eyes were blazing with fury, Vladimir couldn’t help but admire her beauty. Until she grabbed his collar, that is, pulled his face down in front of hers, almost choking him.

“I am sick of your attitude, Vladimir! For weeks you have been acting like a stranger, a stupid one at that,, and now you try to keep me from an operation that could decide the war for us? What is wrong with you? You weren’t acting like this before! Don’t you trust me anymore?”

Vladimir hissed, sucking in air. That accusation hurt. “Mолот, of course I trus…” he didn’t get any farther, she cut him off. 

“Mолот, Mолот, Mолот! Have you forgotten my name? No one else can hear us, so don’t give me that cursed excuse of upholding discipline or giving an example to the others!”

“Sasha…”

“See, you can speak it. Why have you become so distant?”

Vladimir wanted to answer ‘because it hurts less that way’, but couldn’t. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself.

“Answer me!” She was almost hissing into his face.

Vladimir slightly shook his head. He couldn’t. Not without wrecking what friendship he had. He caught a glimpse of tears in her eyes and froze. “I don’t want to see you hurt.” It was true, in more ways than one.

“You’re hurting me now.”

“How?” How? He had done his best, after all. For her.

“You’re acting like a stranger. Like an officer. I don’t want a subordinate. I have enough subordinates. I want my friend back. I want you back.”

“I can’t. I can’t go back.”

“Why not? What has changed? Answer me, damn it!” Sasha still held his collar in her hand. “I want, I need to know what happened!” 

She was hurting, Vladimir realised. He was hurting her. He couldn’t be hurting her, he knew that. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, and answered: “I can’t go back to be your friend. I love you.” There, he said it.

“Oh.” Almost inaudible. Whispered. He opened his eyes, staring into hers, taking in her surprised, vulnerable, expression, so rarely seen on her face. He saw her close her mouth, saw her eyes change from surprise to determination. That expression he was familiar with. That was the Sasha he knew so well.

He was quite surprised when she pulled him in for a kiss, and only realized the two of them had been moving during the kiss when her field bed hit his knees from behind, causing him lose his balance. Sasha ended up on top of him, not that either minded.

*****

Percy Weasley was sitting in his office, behind his desk, but his attention wasn’t focused on the latest report from the ICW that was in front of him. He was pondering the upcoming election. Rumour had it that the old families were looking for a candidate to challenge Hermione. Not him, of course - his family was too poor, too undignified, to be considered. If his father managed to create the ‘spellphones’, and Percy didn’t doubt that, seeing as the prototypes kept getting better, and made a fortune with them, that might change. But that wouldn’t happen in time for the election.

Leaning back, he rubbed his chin. It didn’t matter who the old pureblood families chose as a candidate, What mattered was whether or not Hermione was running. Hermione and Harry, to be precise - he doubted one would leave the other ‘hanging’, as Harry would see it. He didn’t think they were ready to retire, it hadn’t been long enough, and they had spent most of the time in office dealing with the bloodiest war in decades, a situation both thrived in. But he better had to confirm that they were both running, or he’d have to hurry to position himself.

*****

Tsar Cyril Dmitrovich Romanov study of the latest reports from the recruiters and trainers at the Academy was interrupted by his aide entering without permission. That indicated an emergency - or treason. Or both.

“Your Imperial Majesty! The mudblood rabble is attacking the Academy for the Magical Arts!” the young wizard reported, in a mostly calm voice despite his obvious agitation. 

The Tsar frowned. “A foolish notion. Our War Wizards will crush them. Send word to the commanders of our reserves.”

“At once, Your Imperial Majesty!” Neither one noticed the portrait of Princess Anna Karina leaving her frame.

A few minutes later though the Tsar heard a horrible screaming noise, followed by a series of explosions. A banshee? Here? The wards were not breached, but the Tsar had felt the ground tremble, just a bit. How was this possible? He strode out of his office, wand in hand, and called for the captain of his guard.

More of that infernal noise followed, and more explosions. Through the next window he spotted a burning stable, in the middle of a wrecked garden. How in Baba Yaga’s name had that happened? His first thought was treason, sabotage. Someone inside the wards. Then he saw a most peculiar sight - flying objects, descending on his palace, passing through the wards, then exploding against the walls. The protection spells on the walls held, of course. Still, he ducked reflexively when one struck the window he was standing at, leaving soot on it, then cursed himself for showing such weakness.

“Guards! We’re under attack! The attack on the Academy is a feint to draw our forces away! Call them back here!” he bellowed, sending the War Wizards at the next door running. “We need more War Wizards here!” 

To think the mudbloods had the audacity to attack his palace! And he had almost fallen for it - if they had just waited a bit longer, his War Wizards would have been deployed already. He smiled, shaking his head. The lack of training and experience was telling. His own commanders wouldn’t have made such a mistake.

*****

Vladimir Petrovich Volodin was standing on the roof of the Academy for the Magical Arts, the wards themselves, those not already broken, hiding him and the other revolutionaries from muggle Moscow. Sasha, his beautiful, passionate, brave Sasha, was there as well, together with Lidiya, for once not in a robe, but fatigues like everyone else on their side. Wearing a robe would be asking for a stray spell in the coming battle. Zhirov had come through, and produced enough katyushas to convince the Tsar that he was under attack. With some luck the explosives planted near the rocket launchers would take a few War Wizards with them as well. Now they just needed to take and destroy the Academy. Just.

“Protective Wards are down. Cast the spells!” Sasha ordered. 

A dozen comrades drew wands and turned a big part of the roof into acid that quickly ate through the stonework below, creating large holes in the roof - and in anyone unlucky enough to be straight below. Judging from the screaming, a few had been.

“Grenades!” 

At Sasha’s command, a dozen more wizards and witches threw grenades into the holes. As soon as they went off, they jumped through the holes. Hopefully the acid was gone now. Another wave followed before Sasha, Vladimir and Lidiya stepped up to the holes. Vladimir would have been happier if Sasha would have brought up the rear, but this had been as far as she had given in.

Inside, a scene straight from a horror movie awaited them, with a half-melted corpse sunk into a melted desk serving as a stepping stone for the invaders. Only offices, for junior members of the academy, were on this floor. The research was all done underground, and their objective was on the lowest floor, in the vaults, were things that should never see the light of day were stored. Black Death would be there.

Black Death - a magical variant of the plague that had ravaged the World for centuries. Stronger, faster to infect, but slower to kill. Created by a mad researcher in the 17th century. The man had been executed once the Tsar of the time had found out what he had done, but the plague had not been destroyed - like so many other ‘Dark Arts’. When Vladimir had finally realized what Klimov was planning according to the portrait, he had agreed with its judgement. The pureblood was planning to vaccinate his own forces, and then release the plague on the Revolutionaries. The seer’s portrait had attempted to persuade the man that releasing the plague would not just kill the Revolutionaries, but also the muggles, but Klimov had waved her arguments aside, convinced that another plague wouldn’t really matter. The fool didn’t realize what would happen if a more effective, unknown strain of the pest suddenly struck Moscow. The muggles would assume an attack with a biological weapon, and react accordingly. And that was something Vladimir knew had to be avoided at all costs. For all their sakes, even if the muggles never found the real culprit.

They fought through another office floor, killing clerks and academics. No real resistance so far. A few door guards tried to make a stand on the ground floor, but an RPG took care of them. Vladimir checked his watch. If Klimov had started to open the vault as soon as the wards had gone down, then they had five minutes left - it took quite a lot of time to deactivate all the defenses that guarded the horrors stored there. Five minutes… they couldn’t play it safe. The risk was too great.

Sasha had realized that as well, of course, and pushed their forces on. People were not waiting anymore, some leaping through fire, running through acid to reach the next nest of defenders. Casualties were mounting, but they could not stop. Could not rest.

They lost half a dozen comrades on the stairs leading to the vaults, to traps and one desperate researcher. Vladimir had a gash in his arm, barely closed with a spell, from shards of ice that had been banished at them. A Killing Curse had almost hit him as well, only stopped by a slab of granite conjured by Lidiya. He owed her now. Maybe for more even. The last line of defense - hopefully. Barricaded behind marble walls. Warded, no doubt. One minute left. Explosives would not go past, and to break the wards would take too much time...

Sasha put a hand on the shoulder of Dimitri, one of the men carrying the explosives with them, nodding once at him. He nodded back, then screamed, running, charging straight at the barricade, pushing his backpack through the gap in the walls before a series of spells cut him down. Then the backpack exploded, inside the warded marble, and the last line of defense turned into an inferno.

Headless of the heat and flames, protected only by some Cooling and Bubble-Head Charms, Vladimir, Sasha and the remaining attackers entered the last floor, the last vault at a dead run, passing a series of doors and gates. Then, in front of them, a robed man was turning towards them just as a massive vault was sliding open, revealing row after row of shelves, with odd-sized items on them, chests and vials of various designs.

Whatever the man had been about to say was left unsaid as he was hit by a dozen curses at once, his Shield Charm shattered before it had formed fully, and his life gone before he hit the ground.

“We made it,” Sasha said. “At terrible cost, but we made it.” 

Vladimir could only nod. As long as Sasha survived he would be happy. Happy enough.

“Place the charges!” Sasha ordered. “We need to be gone before the War Wizards arrive!” 

At her order, the surviving carriers stepped inside, and quickly placed drums of fuel, and packs of explosives inside the vault. A minute later the door was slowly closing, the last comrade sprinting through. Sasha raised her wand and cast. Just before the vault door closed fully, Vladimir saw fiendfyre spring up inside it.

“You have done it, Mолот,” the portrait said. 

For the first time, Vladimir realized, the portrait hadn’t used Sasha full name, but called her ‘Hammer’. He hadn’t the chance to dwell on the importance of that though.

“We’re done! Move, move!” Sasha urged them on, and the survivors started to run back to the stairs. Behind them, centuries of research, artifacts thought lost, things only known in legends and tales, and a magical plague that should have never been created, burned hotter than hell. 

******* **


	30. Decisions

**Chapter 30: Decisions**

Neville Longbottom had thought he would be nervous before the meeting, but he was calm. Technically, it was not a meeting, but simply tea at Longbottom Manor with a few guests, but everyone attending knew that important matters would be spoken of, and decisions made. Decisions about his life, and about the lives of every witch and wizard in Britain. And yet he was calm. The war had changed him, even more than the Battle of Hogwarts. 

With Hannah on his arm he walked over to the salon in the west wing, his brace moving his lame leg without trouble. Sometimes he felt a tingle in the leg, a very promising sign, but again, his reaction to that had been far calmer than Hannah’s, or his Healer’s. He had learned that there were more important things than a lame leg. Family, for one. And duty, of course.

The couple entered the salon, where his grandmother was already seated, together with Amos Diggory and Heath Shafiq. He greeted both with their titles and pulled out Hannah’s chair without even thinking about it - his childhood lessons had ingrained proper manners into him. Once he had sat down again, their house-elf served the tea. Meaningless chatting followed while the hosts and guests drank and nibbled on some excellent cauldron cakes. Everyone was aware of the forms to be followed. Neville noted with hidden amusement that Diggory seemed even a bit nervous - but then, Augusta had such an effect on weaker people. Finally the man cleared his throat.

“Ah, Lord Longbottom. Have you thought about what we discussed last time we met?”

“I did indeed, and I discussed the matter extensively with my family.” Neville took another sip from his tea, savoring the taste, then laid a hand on Hannah’s, smiling at his fiancée. “Such a decision should not be taken lightly, but I think we thought of everything we had to consider.”

Diggory and Shafiq smiled widely.

“I will not run for Minister.” 

The smiles vanished. 

“But… the country needs you, Lord Longbottom.”

“The country is safe. Safer than it has been in recent memory. My family needs me far more than Britain.” Neville caught Augusta nodding briefly. She had of course known about his decision in advance, but had not let anything slip. That would have been bad form. “I will, of course, run for a seat in the Wizengamot, but I simply cannot spare the time to work in the Ministry, much less as the Minister. My duty to my family comes first. I have fought in two wars already, now it is time to take care of my family.” 

As usual whenever he talked about his family he briefly thought about his parents, bereft of their wits, in St. Mungo’s. For all that mattered, he was the last of a line that dated back to the Founders. The last Longbottom. He was determined not to remain the last.

“But Lord Longbottom! Surely you could be Minister for Magic, and take care of your family! You’d have assistants. Undersecretaries. Advisors. The workload would be light enough, certainly.” Shafiq smiled convincingly, friendly. 

Neville’s answering smile was far more a baring of his teeth. “What you describe is not a Minister for Magic, but a figurehead, and a scapegoat. Are you implying I would be as dishonorable to run for an office I would then neglect?” Neville’s voice had grown in volume as he spoke, and he had leaned forward, his eyes meeting Shafiq’s, glaring until the man looked away. “If you are looking for a fool to serve your interests, look elsewhere. A Longbottom always does his duty.”

“It has been a pleasure, Amos, Heath. We must meet again, say… when the elections are over and we have more time?” Augusta’s words were polite, even friendly, but her tone and eyes clearly showed her support for Neville - and her disdain of the plans of their guests. Both wizards beat a hasty retreat, though of course again going through the forms.

Once they had left through the floo, the three returned to the salon, to enjoy their tea once more, and to chat about their future.

*****

Remi Dubois hated purebloods. They had oppressed muggleborns like him, started a war with Britain when the British muggleborns had revolted, and then had tried to kill the families of the French muggleborns when those had stopped fighting for them. And their treachery had killed his best friend, Francois Verrier. Francois’ entire family had been killed, but for his little sister, Désirée. Remi wanted the lot of the purebloods dead.

Intellectually he knew that there were purebloods and purebloods. That not everyone of them was a mass murdering bigot. But his gut told him to kill them all and let god sort them out. Even the man facing him at the conference table in the Élysée Palace, the residence of the French Président. Marcel Delacour. He was almost a perfect pureblood. Impeccable manners, aristocratic face, expensive clothes and that je-ne-sais-quoi that spoke of old money and magic. The only thing not fitting the picture of a pureblood aristocrat like those Remi had killed in the war was the fact that Delacour too had opposed the pureblood regime. They had wanted to execute him for treason, after all. That, and his daughter was married to the brother of Ron Weasley, the victor of the Battle of the Bastille. Remi still hated Delacour, if only since he stood for all what Remi would never be, and had once dreamed to become.

And yet the two were sitting here, together with the Président, and had to come to an agreement to save their own country. Or countries. That would be decided here as well.

“I trust everyone is familiar with the report from the French representative to the ICW?” Delcaour’s voice was pleasant, as if he was talking about the weather. He didn’t as much as mention that this report was the first report from the new Delegate to the ICW.

  
“Yes. Though I remain sceptical about its conclusions,” the Président answered. “I am not yet fully convinced that the ICW does have the means to back up its demands.”

Remi nodded in agreement. They had beaten the Russians, and the Prussians, after all. Part of him wanted to yell ‘let the rest of the purebloods come!’. The other part had enough of war and killing.

Delacour kept smiling. “But our British friends agreed with the report. The ICW will not accept France assimilating Magical France since such an action would threaten the Statute of Secrecy.”

“We can keep the secret. It would not be the first such secret kept.”

“Oh, but surely you do not compare hiding the actions of your bureaus and agents to hiding an entire society, an entire country, from your own government and parliament. The demands of the taxation alone would make that impossible. Leaving magicals to handle the affairs of Magical France is the only way to preserve the Statute of Secrecy.”

Remi felt completely out of his depth. It wasn’t the first time. He wasn’t a président, or an aristocrat, both with decades of experience in politics. He was just a young wizard who had fought for the freedom of his fellow muggleborns. If only Francois were alive, and here. Remi was supposed to represent the French muggleborns, but he didn’t know how.

“Leaving you without government control lead to the death of dozens of French Citizens. Normal Citizens! And hundreds more were barely saved in time.” The Président sounded quite angry. “Surely you cannot propose that we would let you simply continue in the same vein.”

“You wound me, Monsieur le Président. The Duc is dead, his family gone but for a daughter in the hands of our British friends, and his last followers fled the country. Certainly you do not expect fine wizards such as Monsieur Dubois here, who has fought against the Duc’s troops bravely, to act in the same manner?”

“I am certain that those events you allude to have proven that change is needed.”

“I may agree with that, but trying to absorb Magical France, even if you might treat it like a Départment d’outre-mer, is not the right answer. The ICW will never accept such close relations to a muggle government.”

“France cannot accept another, potentially hostile, nation on its soil.”

Remi listened to the two men going back and forth. Both had good points, and he was leaning more towards the Président’s opinion, of course. Yet… He cleared his throat, surprising the two men. “Why don’t we copy the British? Have Magical France be led by a Minister for Magic, subordinate to the Président de la Républic?” 

“Ah, the British system is not as simple, my friend, but your proposal has merit.” 

“As long as safeguards are in place to ensure the safety of the Président,” the Président added.

“That, and more such details, would have to be decided, of course.”

Remi closed his eyes as the two men started to talk to and past each other again. He wished he was home. Désirée was old enough to not need a babysitter, but the pain from the loss of her family was still raw, and it would not be a good thing if she would be left alone for long. He sighed. 

He hated purebloods, and politics.

*****

The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom leaned back in his seat, contemplating the latest news from France and Wizarding Britain. Apparently the French Président had abandoned his attempt at taking control of Magical France. “So… France has settled their affairs with their own wizards then, Nigel?”

“That is correct, sir.” 

“They have chosen an interesting solution. I think this would work for the United Kingdom as well.”

“If our wizards agree, sir.”

“Yes, if our wizards agree.” The Prime Minister didn’t sigh, but he wanted to. “And what do they think? I have spoken with Mister Finch-Fletchley, but he was quite vague about his son’s views, and Justin Finch-Fletchley himself has proven to be quite busy, so we haven’t been able to talk in person yet.”

“From what my informants tell me, the purebloods are looking to Neville Longbottom as their candidate for Minister for Magic. He is quite popular in all circles, yet comes from a long and distinguished pureblood family.”

“I see. And what are his chances to actually be elected as Minister?”

“Against Miss Granger? Slim to none. Against Mister Finch-Fletchley? Quite good. He’s a war hero, having personally faced Voldemort in the Second Blood War, and was wounded and possibly crippled in Poland in the Revolutionary War. His parents were crippled - mentally - in the first Blood War. He wasn’t involved in politics so far, which means he has no dirty laundry to be revealed, but he is a close friend of Mister Potter and Miss Granger. Lastly he is marrying his school sweetheart. If his fiancée would be a muggleborn witch it wouldn’t even be a contest against Finch-Fletchley, who has fought in the Blood War and the current war as well and has been involved in politics for some time, but is not as famous.”

The Prime Minister didn’t like that. “I’d really prefer Finch-Fletchley as Minister.”

“Yes sir. But there’s not much we can do.”

“Yes.” There were some things one could do, but arranging such in the Magical World took resources the United Kingdom lacked. “Though as you stated, if Miss Granger runs it’s a moot point.”

“Did you talk with her parents, sir?”

“They are dentists. She would see through that in an instant, and it would be counter-productive. Not to mention their relationship is a bit strained, according to our reports.”

Granger and Potter. It all came down to what they wanted. The Prime Minister didn’t like that. At all.

*****

Tsar Cyril Dmitrovich Romanov’s office shook with each explosion. He was almost used to it. His palace was surrounded by the Revolutionary Forces, and cut off from the Floo Network or Apparition. Broom riders still duelled in the skies, but given their attrition rates, even with the brooms usually disillusioned and fighting in the almost perpetual fog and clouds that hid the area from mugle eyes, sooner or later one side or the other would be running out of brooms or riders. He didn’t care much about it - the battle would be decided on the ground long before that.

He still didn’t know how the mudbloods had managed to destroy the Academy for the Magical Arts, despite the best defenses the brightest wizards had been building for centuries. Treason, his gut told him, and yet, wouldn’t the oaths have prevented that? They had not caught any of the attackers to interrogate. It didn’t matter, in the long run. All that mattered was who would win the battle for the Palace. His Palace. 

The Revolutionaries, the mudbloods, were committed. He was certain they had thrown all they had at his stronghold, in the hope to catch him and end the war. But he had been prepared for such, and his guard was holding while his War Wizards were attacking the sieging mudbloods in their rear. The mudbloods could retreat, he was sure, but if they did the news of their defeat would break their spirit. 

The battle would have been decided already, if not for those cursed muggle weapons. His War Wizards were forced to keep up their interlocking and now stacked shields almost all the time, severely hampering their ability to strike, much less pursue their enemies. While they could press on, and push back any mudblood force they faced, the mudbloods had greater mobility and flexibility, which evened the odds out. It seemed for every mudblood unit his War Wizards broke, a War Wizard unit was caught in an ambush or trap, or outmanoeuvred and destroyed.

The Tsar sighed. War Wizards and those mudbloods, working together, would be unbeatable. If he had had those forces fighting the British… the war for Poland would have gone differently. If only the mudbloods had not rebelled…

But instead of beating its foreign foes, Russia was tearing itself apart. Another explosion. The Tsar wondered how many of those muggle devices the mudbloods had, to spend them so freely. Then he almost slapped himself. They only needed one, and the Gemino Charm. They would not run out of them. Provided they had a strong enough caster to multiply what were surely large devices.

Even with the muggle weapons the Tsar was sure they would have been defeated already, if not for treason. Time after time his plans had been foiled, attacks met with ambushes, feints ignored and weaknesses exploited. It had stopped when he had given more autonomy to his commanders, but that had meant less coordination, which in turn had hampered the efficiency of his forces. A weakness the mudbloods had not hesitated to exploit either.

Another explosion. With each the wards protecting his palace were weakened a bit. Already parts of the walls were in ruins, their protective spells overcome. Sooner or later they would fail, and he would share the fate of the Duc d’Orléans. He could flee, could retreat, of course. He could even take all his men with him - there were secret tunnels, running far below the palace, into caverns and tunnels broken out long ago by goblins long killed to preserve the secret. And yet if he did so, he’d lose the war. No pureblood would follow a Tsar who had been chased out of his palace.

He had thought of dropping the wards, luring the mudbloods into the palace, trapping them there, in a bloody fight at close range, then rolling them up from behind with his War Wizard columns. But they would not charge if the wards fell, they’d send their bombs and explosions, destroying the palace to kill him. A thousand years of history, destroyed for one man. 

He sat down behind his desk, brooding. It was not just the Palace, it was an entire country that would be destroyed. All for one man. No matter who won in the end, Russia would be too weak to withstand its enemies. China would reach out for Siberia. The Ottomans would press up from the Black Sea. The Swedes might try to retake what they lost in the last war. Even Persia might push northwards. His motherland would be gone, reduced to a rump, or entirely destroyed. All for one man. All because of him.

He closed his eyes. He could prevent it. Save his country. Wasn’t that the foremost duty of a ruler? Noblesse oblige. He looked over the portraits of his ancestors. All were eyeing him, even Princess Anna Karina. Did she know his thoughts? Had she foreseen it? Her expression did not betray her thoughts, and he did not want to ask. He alone had brought this upon him, he would face it alone.

Decision made he stood up and walked to the door. 

“Guards! Bring my son to my office! At once!”

While they hurried to obey, the Tsar ran a number of cosmetic spells over his robes. Spells that cleaned and straightened, spells that would keep mud from sticking to them, spells that would keep even the smallest of his hairs in place. It wouldn’t do if his appearance was less than perfect on this important day.

*****

Vladimir Petrovich Volodin was staring at the Tsar’s Palace through enchanted binoculars, next to Sasha. His Sasha. He still felt almost giddy when he thought of her, saw her. Even in the midst of this brutal, bloody siege. An hour ago the War Wizards had withdrawn, as had the guards fighting outside the palace wards. Even the broom riders had not encountered disillusioned enemies since then. Vladimir was certain that it was a trap, that the purebloods were preparing something. An ambush, maybe. Or some ancient forgotten magic, with a terrible cost for both wielder and target. He wanted Sasha far away from this place, but he knew she would not budge. Not his Sasha. All he could do, all his comrades could do, was to be ready. Ready for anything the purebloods could throw at them.

Then the portrait of Anna Karina appeared in the frame carried by Lidiya. 

“Mолот, the Tsar is on his way to the palace gates.”

“What? What is he planning?”

“He is planning to end the war.”

*****

Tsar Cyril Dmitrovich Romanov stood, head held high, while the gates to his palace opened, revealing the cratered, destroyed landscape in front of them. Wand in hand he stepped out. The captain of his guard, all the guards at the gate, tried to follow him, but he sent them back with a glare. A number of them cried, even his captain had tears in his eyes as he nodded, obeying, and started to close the gates again.

The Tsar, clad in his best robe, took a deep breath. Even with all the death and destruction the air had remained clear - it was too cold for anything to rot yet. He started to walk towards the enemy positions, with neither haste nor hesitation. Only at the wardline did he take a moment to turn his head and gaze at his palace, before he marched on, wand in hand.

In front of him a group of Revolutionaries emerged from what shelter they had made of broken wood and earth, clad in the drab green uniforms of the muggle army. He kept walking straight towards them, wand pointed at the ground, still. He noticed one of the men there stepping in front of the woman in the middle. He didn’t know either of them, but knew the scene. He did know the witch next to them - Lidiya Sergevna Golubeva. He had heard of her desertion, of course. It had been expected, after he had his son imprisoned. To see her with the Revolutionaries, on this occasion, lightened his heart. His son would be safe, he was now certain. She was carrying what looked like a frame, and suddenly he knew who had been the traitor in his midst. He almost laughed. It didn’t matter anymore.

All but the woman in the middle and Lidiya had their wands pointed at him. Perfect. Once the distance between them had shrunk to twenty paces he stopped.

“Greetings. Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

The woman in the middle answered “I am Mолот. Are you here to parley?”

The leader of the Revolutionary Forces. Perfect! He hadn’t known it was a woman, but that too didn’t matter now. He smiled widely, and shook his head.

“I have not come to parley, but to fight.” 

He raised his wand, and as he had expected he did not manage to cast a single spell before he was hit by half a dozen, and death claimed him before he felt any pain.

*****

Vladimir Petrovich Volodin stared at the corpse of the Tsar, his robes untouched even by the mud and dirt the Tsar had fallen on. Sightless eyes stared into the sky, and his mouth was still smiling. His body had been pierced, cut, and almost ripped apart, but his head and face had not been touched. Vladimir didn’t understand what had happened, nor why.

Lidiya knelt down and closed the Tsar’s eyes, tears in her eyes, but a smile on her face. Vladimir shook his head. He felt lost.

“The war is over.” 

Sasha’s words made him turn around. 

“What?”

She pointed at the palace. The gates were open, and a man carrying a white flag was walking towards their group. 

“Alexander!” 

Lidiya’s shout told him and everyone inside a hundred meters that this was the Tsarevich.

While the young wizard was coming closer, Vladimir looked down at the dead Tsar. Too many of his friends had died in the war the man had started to ever forgive him, but he could respect him for this.

The war was over.

*****

Sergeant Albert Nott was reading the latest letter he had received, here in Bulgaria, where he and his squad were shoring up the borders against a possible intrusion by Ottoman slavers. Well, shoring up the borders and preparing the wedding of his Lieutenant, James Baker, to the cousin of the Bulgarian Minister, Viktor Krum. Speaking of weddings… he glared at the letter.

“Bad news from home?” his squad mate, Sergeant Arthur “Artie” Wilkinson, asked from his cot, where he was chewing on some snack from the package he had received.

“Not bad news, but news that brings up bad memories.”

“Ah.” Artie didn’t pry further, one didn’t do that, but Albert knew his fellow Sergeant. He would be listening should he wish to talk. 

“You know I am from a wizard family, right? Even though I cannot work magic myself.”

“Yes.”

“People like me, born to magical parents, but not magical ourselves, they call ‘squibs’ back there. We’re usually exiled to the real world so we can’t embarrass our wizard relatives. That is, if we don’t have an accident after our letter to Hogwarts doesn’t arrive.”

“Damn.”

“It’s why I joined in the army. Anyway, these people writing me would have used to pretend I did not exist two years ago. Now, with me the heir of the Nott family, since I am the last one left alive, they suddenly want to make nice, and invite me to their homes and gatherings.”

“What for?”

“To present their marriageable daughters to me.”

“Ah.” Artie didn’t comment on the implied fact that Albert now was rich. Or at least well off. “You planning on picking a young wife?”

Albert scoffed. “From those who would have gladly shunned me, or worse, a bit ago? I’d not piss on them if they were on fire.” He was reluctant to even attend such gatherings. Potions and charms were a thing, and who was to say anyone would care about a squib marrying into a good family?

Artie made a grunting noise of agreement, and the talk was over. Albert sighed, and put the letter away, to the others he had received. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to marry. But he didn’t want to marry a girl from a proper family. Even if she was nice he’d always wonder and worry if she was after him, or after his money. Maybe he should follow his officer’s example, and look for a nice girl who didn’t know the name Nott, and thought he was a muggle. Or a muggle girl. He wasn’t getting younger, and it was time to settle down. Maybe after this tour of duty.

*****

Hermione Granger looked up from the latest memo when Percy Weasley entered her office. She stood up and shook his hand. Harry just waved from his seat. The young wizard wore a nice, new suit, with a conservative cut - very conservative, Hermione realized. It wouldn’t have been out of place in the time before the First World War.

“Have a seat.”

“Thank you for finding the time for this talk. I know how busy you both are.” Percy smiled while he sat down. 

He grinned at Harry’s claim that he was simply relaxing, and stared at the parchment in the other wizard’s lap until Harry grumbled something about paperwork creeping up on him when he was not paying attention. Hermione smiled. Truth was, both were drowning in work, no matter how much of a slacker front Harry tried to present. Their days had gotten longer and longer lately.

“So, what important topic did you want to talk about?” Hermione didn’t want to rush things, but she had a lot of things to do, and couldn’t afford to spend too much of her time on banter or other chitchat.

“The pureblood faction has asked Neville to run for Minister for Magic,” Percy said. 

Hermione froze. She hadn’t heard about that. 

“Let’s kill him!” 

Both Hermione and Percy stared at Harry for a second, until he chuckled. “It was a joke, mates.”

Percy laughed, relieved. Hermione laughed as well, but but didn’t feel like it. It hadn’t been a joke. Harry had simply blurted out his first thought. She knew that because that had been her second thought, right after ‘How can I verify this?’. Merlin! What was wrong with them, to even consider killing one of their oldest friends over politics?

She didn’t dwell on this, not right then, and focused on Percy again. “Did he agree with that?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t asked him myself, but most I have talked to seem to think that he’ll run for Minister, backed by the old families.”

“And for the old families?”

“Well, he is of old blood, and apart from serving in the war and helping out with some Herbology issues” - Hermione frowned at the reminder of that mess - “he has kept his distance to the Ministry since the Revolution.” Percy spread his hands, and Hermione nodded. 

“Indeed.” While she didn’t think Neville would want to restore the old order, she didn’t really see him as a progressive. And his grandmother … 

“Though everyone agrees he has no chance to win against you,” Percy continued. 

Hermione caught Harry’s smile upon hearing that, and smiled herself. “And you’d like to know whether or not we’ll run for Minister and Chief Warlock.”

Percy smiled and nodded, but she could see that he was concerned. He would have to be - if Hermione didn’t run for Minister, Percy would be likely run against Neville, but he would need to gather a lot of support to carry the election. He was well-liked and well-connected inside the Ministry, Hermione knew, but the Wizengamot would be freshly elected then, and he’d have not many contacts among the new members yet.

The big question was though - did she want to run for Minister? She glanced at Harry, who lost his smile when he saw her expression, then nodded.

“We’ll discuss that, and we’ll get back to you as soon as we know what we want to do, Percy.”

Percy’s eyes widened, he must have just realized that she was not certain that she wanted to stay Minister. He probably hadn’t really expected that. “Of course. I’ll leave you to your work then.”

Harry waved again as the redhead left the office. As soon as the door had closed the two stared at each other. Harry tried to look relaxed, but his right foot was whipping up and down as if he was powering an old sewing machine.

Hermione sighed. “I don’t know if I want to stay Minister.” 

“Too much paperwork?” Harry gestured at her desk, covered with paper and parchment.

“It’s not that. Or not that alone.” She stood up and walked over to him, sitting down in his lap. For this talk, she wanted to be as close to him as she could be. “I know you were not joking, earlier,” she whispered to him, and felt him freeze for an instant in response. “I know it because I thought the same.”

Harry didn’t answer, but pulled her closer to him, into a firm hug, and buried his face in her hair.

Hermione continued. “We hear Neville might be competing with me, and our first thought is to kill him. He has never done anything to harm us. He has never said anything against our government. He has helped us, fought for us, and yet as soon as we hear he might want to become Minister, we think of killing him. Our friend.”

“Damn.”

“Damn. We haven’t had time to rest in years, Harry. We’ve been on the run for a year, hunted by and fighting Voldemort, until you killed him. Then we went and got my parents back from Australia.” That had been far too stressful for a vacation, and emotionally draining. “Then we found out about the trials Shacklebolt rigged. Or let be rigged. Then we broke up with the Weasleys while we were organizing the Revolution. And ever since the Revolution, we’ve been working nonstop, restoring the government, reforming the country, cleaning up the mess the purebloods left us, waging a war with half of Europe… We still think and react as if we’re at war. We haven’t ever stopped thinking we were at the frontline. It’s not healthy, Harry.”

“Damn.” 

He kept holding her tightly, as if he feared she might disappear if he let up even a bit. She could feel his muscles, tense, rigid even. She knew his eyes would be clenched shut, and his teeth clenched.

“We can’t continue like this, Harry. It’ll destroy us, and our friends and families.”

Harry took a deep breath, then forced himself to relax his grip. “But… what will happen without us? Who will keep our families and friends safe, if not us two?”

This time it was Hermione who hugged Harry, with enough force to make him grunt. “Someone has to, we won’t be able to for much longer. And if there is no one left, then… well, then we have failed to save Britain. A country that is dependent on two people is already lost.”

“We haven’t failed.” Harry spoke with conviction, though some was born from desperation. 

Hermione felt the same. If they had failed, then all the sacrifices, all the deaths would have been for nothing.

The two remained like that for some time, without a word, the only sound their breathing, until both had calmed down some, and Hermione didn’t feel like running, or hexing, anything or anyone, anymore.

“Percy would make a good Minister. He’s not indebted to any old pureblood family, apart from his own, he’s a good administrator and diplomat, and a good friend.” 

Hermione didn’t trust Neville to be a good Minister. He had no contacts in the Ministry, which would make it hard to keep on top of the bureaucracy. And she didn’t trust his grandmother. Neville had been raised as a proper pureblood, some of that would have stuck. Percy though… the Weasleys were many things, but proper purebloods they were not.

“No muggleborn candidate?”

“None I can think of I’d trust with the office. None of them is experienced enough, or connected enough not to be easily influenced by whoever got his or her ear. In a few years that might be different, but now?” She sighed.

“I’ll ask Justin then to follow me. He’s good at politics, at least in the Wizengamot.” 

‘And he’s a muggleborn’ remained unsaid, but both knew that was also important. Hermione expected that the offices of the Chief Warlock and Minister for Magic would be split between muggleborns and purebloods for some time, informally of course. With half-bloods picking one side to run for. Not ideal, but better than the alternative.

“Can we pull this off? Can we pick our successors and get them elected? Should we even do that? It’s not exactly ideal in a democracy.” Hermione was starting to ramble.

“We have to.” Harry’s voice was firm again. “Britain needs a stable government, at least until we recover from the wars.”

“So… we’ll talk with Percy and Justin, tomorrow?”

“Yes. Do you think we can leave our paperwork to them already?”

That comment earned him a playful swat on the head. 

“We’ve come far since we started planning the Revolution, haven’t we?” Hermione asked, after several minutes spent in silence.

“We did. We’ve earned some rest.”

There was nothing to add after that.

******* **


	31. Epilogue: Three Years Later

**Epilogue: Three Years Later**

Yet another hymn filled the church. Harry Potter fought not to fidget and check his watch. Ron, standing next to him, smirked. Harry glared at him in response, then whispered: “Next year it’s your turn.” 

That shut his best man up. The two were waiting in front of the altar for Hermione and her entourage to arrive. He knew intellectually that if anything had happened he would have been informed. And yet he couldn’t help but be nervous. Slightly nervous. Just a bit. 

His groomsmen were at the entrance, standing in the sunlight, chatting. Hopefully not about politics - though with Dean Thomas the only one among his groomsmen not involved in politics, that was a slim hope. Justin Finch-Fletchley, Chief Warlock, Percy Weasley, Minister for Magic, as well as Neville Longbottom, leader of the progressive pureblood faction in the Wizengamot, were likely to use the opportunity to talk about some upcoming proposals. It was ironic, in a way, that they could use Harry’s wedding to chat relatively discreetly. Harry knew the three politicians usually felt a bit ‘under observation’ in his or Hermione’s presence - both of them had been elected into the Wizengamot after they had retired from their offices following the end of the civil war in Russia, and even though they had taken a two year ‘sabbatical’, their influence in the Wizengamot and Wizarding Britain’s politics had not waned much.

Harry didn’t like to think of that ‘sabbatical’. While there had been rumors about both traveling incognito around the world, seeing the sights, it had been just a cover story. Hermione and Harry had had spent almost all the time in therapy, dealing with the issues and trauma from years spent in one war or the other, and even more years spent in a school filled with danger from sadistic teachers or future mass murderers. Not to mention his childhood in a cupboard. 

And Dumbledore. Merlin, just how much of his problems had he blamed that meddling old wizard for! He would never have expected to understand the man, but now, with the war over, and having dealt with many of his issues, he saw a number of parallels between the old Headmaster and himself. They both had defeated the Dark Lord of their times, at great cost, and while they could have run the country afterwards, hadn’t done so. Maybe even for similar reasons, though he didn’t really want to know that. And both had still been meddling in their country’s politics, influencing policies and laws, using the fame and fear their deeds had brought. Though there the similarities ended, in Harry’s opinion. Unlike Dumbledore, he was not alone, but had Hermione. Unlike Dumbledore he was not afraid of doing what was needed - even now, Harry knew, he’d kill without hesitation, should he deem it necessary to protect his family and friends. And Hermione, of course. Hermione.

While the therapy had helped them - saved them and their relationship, he was honest enough to admit - it had been one of the most trying times in his life, and more than once he had felt as if he was living through his worst nightmares again. Between him and Hermione, they had had enough buried trauma and suppressed emotions to fill a book. It had been so bad, he was not sure if their therapist had been joking when she had claimed to be needing therapy herself afterwards.

But it was over now. Had been over for a year already, during which the two had started to attend the Wizengamot sessions, reconnected with their friends and family, and had taken that trip around the world, a few days a time. He had never felt better, to be honest, than today. Just not right now.

To distract himself and avoid fidgeting, he looked around the church. The guests were seated already, just Hermione and her entourage - her parents, her maid of honor and her bridesmaids - were still missing. Not missing, they were on their way, on schedule, he reminded himself.

At the back he spotted Robert Smith. The man had declined to be a groomsman, preferring to provide security ‘for old time’s sake’. These days, Harry and Hermione were not protected by a security detail around the clock. Not anymore. A Fidelius on their flat and another on No 12 Grimmauld Place ensured that no one could attack their home, and when they were going out the two were usually either very discreet - secret, even - or they visited equally safe locations, with enough protective spells on them to make a group of War Wizards jealous. Not that they had to fear War Wizards anymore - the new Russian government was quite friendly towards Britain. The Russian President, Alexandra Glebova, or Mолот as she was still called by her soldiers, had sent her regards and best wishes for their wedding. Quite cordial of her, especially after they had not been able to attend the wedding of her and Vladimir Petrovich Volodin and hadn’t been able to reveal the real reason, their therapy.

Near Smith he spotted Sally-Anne Perks, their wedding planner. The witch was almost as fanatical about the ceremony as Smith was about security - it was, to use her own words, the most important wedding of her career. A career, the young witch was fond of joking, she had chosen so at least she could say she had organized more weddings than she had had herself.

Letting his gaze wander, Harry saw James Baker with his wife, Stefka Krum. Next to him sat Krum, and Harry had to fight not to smile triumphantly at the wizard. Just like Hermione, the wizard had stepped down as the Minister for Magic of Bulgaria as soon as the country had been stable. Unlike Harry he had taken up his career in Quidditch - again. And unlike Harry, he was not about to marry the smartest, bravest and most beautiful witch of her generation. Hah! And to think his therapist had claimed he had jealousy issues! Maybe he should consider playing Quidditch professionally, they never had that seeker duel, after all...

To their right sat Remi Dubois and Désirée Verrier. Mostly because that was as far away as possible from where the Delacours sat. The French family had been placed on the groom’s side, to even numbers out a bit. While half an army of Grangers had come to see Hermione marry ‘her boarding school boyfriend’, Harry’s family consisted of his cousin Dudley and his godson, Teddy Tonks, who was sitting on his grandmother’s lap. All the Weasleys were also sitting on Harry’s side, thankfully not including Aunt Muriel. 

The Weasleys had come a long way from their humble beginnings. Percy was Minister for Magic, George had crawled out of his bottle, with a bit of help from Harry’s therapist, and Charlie was managing the growing Dragon Reservation in Scotland. Fortunately not too close to Hogwarts. Bill was working as an independent Curse-Breaker these days. That was a good thing, seeing as they never had taken those bombs back that Hermione had had hidden in key vaults in Gringotts. Just in case the Goblins ever felt like starting another war. Arthur had become very rich as soon as he had managed to perfect his ‘spellphones’. People were already complaining as much about them as muggles complained about mobile phones. As the main shareholder after Arthur of their firm, Percy had become rich as well, which had helped his chances of staying in office greatly. 

That Polish friend of Ginny’s, Makary Bercik, was sitting with the Weasleys as well. A very charming man by all accounts, or so Harry had heard - he hadn’t talked with the man much himself, and had had the impression that there was a bit of hostility towards himself. It was probably just the language barrier. The wizard had managed to survive Molly’s ‘inquisition’, so he had to be made of sterner stuff.

The music changed - the wedding march! Harry turned toward the entrance, a smile breaking out on his face. She had arrived!

*****

Hermione Granger stepped out of the carriage, helped by her father. Her long, white dress barely touched the ground, not that it mattered - a few discreet charms ensured it would not stain. The small veil kept the sunlight out of her eyes as the groomsmen started to escort her grandparents and her mother inside.

Next to be escorted inside would be her bridesmaids, Ginny, Gabrielle, Parvati and Padma Patil. There should have been one of her cousins among them, but Hermione had not forgotten their remarks at the last family gathering before the Second Blood War, about how she’d end up an old maid. Besides with all bridesmaids being witches they did not have be concerned about the Statute of Secrecy while preparing. Security was easier too. Her parents hadn’t been that happy about having to smooth the ruffled tempers of their relatives, but Hermione had pointed out that they were having an entire muggle wedding just so all of the Grangers could attend without having their minds wiped afterwards, implicating that it was a great sacrifice on her part. Which wasn’t actually true, of course - she had wanted such a wedding since she had been little, and having to fight Voldemort and then half of Europe’s purebloods hadn’t made her look at magical weddings more favorably.

Gabrielle was looking around as if taking notes - the young Veela was determined to marry Ron right after she graduated from Beauxbatons. The two had become an official couple as soon as Gabrielle had become of age, even though neither of the two had ever mentioned what exactly had happened at Gabrielle’s 17th birthday. Ron just coughed and blushed when the topic was brought up, and Gabrielle smirked while Fleur frowned.

Ginny was fiddling with her dress. Probably checking if the hidden mokeskin pouch was still accessible. She didn’t carry as many weapons with her as did Ron - Hermione was certain he still carried his shrunken tank around with him - but like most of those witches and wizards who had fought in the Revolutionary Wars she had kept her share of weapons, issued and looted. Percy had been rather pragmatic about it and had simply chosen a reservist system for their army, modeled after the Swiss Army, so inactive soldiers were allowed to keep their weapons at home. It made sense of course, seeing as no one would try to take their deadliest weapons, their wands, away. That it kept both Ron and Ginny happy had been a consideration as well, Hermione was certain. Not that she did not carry around a similar range of deadly weapons and items, just in case. Even two years of therapy had not made her foolish, after all. It wasn’t paranoia if people really were out to get you.

The groomsmen had returned, to escort the bridesmaids inside. Now it was just Hermione, her father, and Luna, the maid of honor. The blonde witch had helped her and Harry so much, it was the least they could have done. Without her, they might not have lasted long enough to get therapy. Or, as Luna put it, ‘get their Others and Trimitites killed’. Luna had been fascinated with the methods of their therapist, and had even started studying psychology herself - or what passed for studying for a Lovegood. Her Quibbler articles dealing with that had been… interesting. Hermione never said so, but she was convinced that Luna had been responsible for their therapist needing therapy herself. But for all her quirks Luna remained her best, most trusted girlfriend. She reached out and squeezed the blonde witch’s hand, smiling.

Luna smiled back, then hugged her, not caring that but for a few charms she might have wrinkled both their dresses. She had been staring at the church, commenting about the Wrackspurts and whatever other animals she saw. Hermione wasn’t certain anymore if Luna’s animals were actually imaginary. Not after Percy had lost all hair to one of the animals Luna kept at the Rook, and which she had described as an invisible floating air jellyfish from Sumatra that ate hair and hats. No one had been able to regrow Percy’s hair so far. In return, he had almost managed to ban the animal from Britain with a law proposal that only failed because someone added a rider to it that would have banned other dangerous animals as well. 

At least Neville’s leg was recovering, if slowly - he still needed a brace. Hermione had managed to find the spell used, but hadn’t found a counter-spell yet. Since the leg was healing anyway, it hadn’t been a priority either. She was quite busy these days. Apart from spell and magic research, most of it going straight into the vaults of the Department of Mysteries, she still had to finish her book about the Second Blood War, with special emphasis on Dumbledore’s deeds and misdeeds. After therapy, and with more distance to the events, she had become a bit less scathing in her criticism of the wizard, a bit more understanding, but she could never forgive him his treatment of Harry. And of course there were her special projects, which not even the Department of Mysteries knew about. Only Harry knew about them. They trusted the new British Ministry, but it still was a good idea to be prepared just in case things changed. So far it hadn’t been necessary, but on their tour around the world they had heard and seen things… she dropped that thought. Today was her wedding day.

Then it was Luna’s turn to enter, escorted by Ron, who shot Hermione a broad grin, and a smile at her father. The Grangers and Ron hadn’t gotten along that well, though their relationship had improved lately. Sharing stories about Hermione’s antics at school and at home had been a bonding experience, or so they claimed. Harry wisely had not commented.

Now it was just her father and Hermione - not counting the security around the church. It wasn’t quite a state affair, but seeing as both the current Chief Warlock and Minister for Magic and their predecessors were attending, it might as well have been. Even muggle Britain had sent security - though how much of the reason for that was goodwill, and how much was showing the flag, so to speak, remained unclear. Relations between Wizarding Britain and the United Kingdom remained, not quite tense, but still delicate and new. Wizarding Britain was a sort of Dominion these days, though in many areas the Wizards were more of a sovereign nation. A lot of aspects of that relationship had yet to be defined and determined. It kept politicians and lawyers busy.

Hermione’s father offered her his arm. She took it with a beaming smile. At least that relationship had been mended. Coming clean about the therapy and the reasons for it had helped, of course - made it easier for her parents to forgive and forget. And if maybe a bit too much had even blamed on Hermione’s traumatic experiences, Hermione certainly wouldn’t correct them. Ignorance could be bliss in this case.

The two entered the church to the melody of the wedding march, and Hermione had to fight back tears. A childhood dream was coming true. They walked down the aisle, passing family and friends, and other guests. Like the Headmistress of Hogwarts, Professor McGonagall. Despite Hermione’s expectations the old witch had managed to keep her position, thanks to her ability to delegate as many of her duties as she could. Fortunately she did spend her free time teaching selected transfiguration courses and overseeing the staff instead of meddling in politics, unlike her predecessor. 

There was Ginny’s boyfriend, possibly fiancé, Makary Bercik. A dashing Polish wizard, war hero, with charm for three wizards and a sharp mind. A joy to talk with, even if he had some issues with Harry. The same issues Harry had with Viktor, to be precise. Ginny had claimed she wasn’t the cause of that, but who knew? Hopefully, after today, that would be settled.

Then she was at the altar, standing next to Harry, surrounded by Ron, Luna, and the groomsmen and bridesmaids. Harry, resplendent in his tailor-made and charmed suit. Smiling at her. Under her veil, her tears ran freely then while the priest spoke. She did not really listen, she knew what the man would say already. What mattered was Harry.

The ringbearer, her ten-year-old cousin Mark, stepped up, presenting the rings. Understated, though expensive enough to make some particularly smug cousin of her jealous. Even without all the protective and other charms on them. Right then she wouldn’t have minded if they were the cheapest brass one could find.

“I, Harry James Potter, take thee, Hermione Jean Granger, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy law, and this is my solemn vow.” 

“I, Hermione Jean Granger, take thee, Harry James Potter, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy law, and this is my solemn vow.”

Harry lifted her veil and their lips met, for the first time as husband and wife.

** ***** **


End file.
